Four Seasons
by junejuly15
Summary: Four Seasons - Twelve Months - A Lifetime. Each season will be linked to a phase in John and Sherlock's life, each month will highlight a special episode. From their very first meeting as kids to to being lovers and parents. Johnlock. Chapter 14: Winter - February. Complete (Warning: Major Character Death)
1. Spring, March

**Four Seasons – Twelve Months – A Lifetime. Twelve chapters highlighting episodes from John and Sherlock's life. **

**Each season will be linked to a certain phase in their life, each month will depict one special event. It will start with their first ever meeting as kids and move on to their time as lovers, parents and on towards the end of their life.**

**Here comes the first part …Enjoy reading!**

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**SPRING – March **

Lightning zigzagged across the darkened sky followed almost immediately by a frightening clap of thunder. Inside the old shed near the duck pond five year old Sherlock thought the world was coming to an end. The little boy cowered even lower, and startled by the loud noise, he covered his ears with his hands. His body was trembling, his eyes were screwed shut, but thankfully his small hands covering his ears were effectively cutting out most of the noise.

He had sneaked out after lunch and was still dressed in a white shirt and dark blue trousers, his Sunday clothes obviously. In contrast to this rather genteel attire his feet were barefoot and dirty. He had left his shoes and his jacket behind because this March Sunday had been unseasonably warm, the last few days conjuring up an illusion of early and false summer. Crouching in the corner of this shed had added a few cobwebs to his dark curly hair and to his clothes and earlier on the experiment in the grass involving a family of grasshoppers a few green stains to his white shirt.

Sherlock nervously began to count from one to ninety-seven, that's as far he knew the numbers, 'One – two – three – four – five – six – seven - eight …' but he soon stopped as counting wasn't distracting enough and he began to recite the synonyms of his favourite words to help him focus on the world inside him and to cut out the noise of the raging thunderstorm. 'Meretricious – treacherous, fallacious, elusive. Obvious – blatant, evident, transparent. Evidence – proof, token, attest. Isolation – excl …'

Another clap of thunder, so loud that it drowned out the little boy's voice and sent another shiver of panic over his lean body.

'… usion,' Sherlock continued after the roll of thunder had died down. It had become eerily quiet and he gingerly removed his hands from his ears, but after a moment of deceitful silence rain started to beat down with a surprising force. Thunder and lightning seemed to have lessened though, and so he dared opening his eyes and peered through the crack in the wooden wall to see the not quite green nature fairly drowning in rain. The temperature had dropped considerably and his feet began to get cold.

Unlikely that he would be able to leave the shed anytime soon, so he sat back on his heels, wiggled his toes to warm them, and continued thinking of wonderful synonyms for wonderful words. He might as well pass the time doing something pleasant while he had to wait for the rain and the storm to abate. Another unexpected and very loud boom frightened him anew and he screwed his eyes shut and pressed his hands over his ears again.

'Quick … Run, you little idiot! We'll be soaked.'

A voice, near him inside the shed! He opened his eyes and peeked around the block of wood he was hiding behind. He saw a girl or a boy, he couldn't really tell, but older than him that much was obvious. He or she was standing just inside the entrance of the shed obviously waiting for somebody else, impatiently fidgeting and waving an eager hand towards someone still outside.

'Hurry up! What are you even _doing_!'

'Coming, Harry. Don't get your knickers in a twist!'

Despite his fear Sherlock involuntarily giggled at that expression. The other person entered the shed, and Sherlock got up a bit and craned his neck the better to see the two of them. From what he could make out it was obviously two boys and they looked ... without thinking he leaned on a loose board laden with old flower pots and sent everything crashing to the ground with a deafening noise. Scared by the noise and afraid to be found out he quickly crouched down again. The two boys spun around and peered into the direction where the noise had come from.

'What was that?' The one who was called Harry said and walked towards the rear end of the shed. The other boy followed with a bit more caution. Sherlock scrabbled as far back as he could, but behind him was the wall, he was trapped. He curled into himself and closed his eyes, hoping to be overlooked, but that wasn't to be as he heard the two boys coming closer and closer.

'What's _that_?' Harry said with such a derisive undertone that he heartened a bit and lifted his head, surely he can't have meant him, he must have found something interesting, maybe a dead rat or something. How badly he had misjudged the situation became clear when he slowly opened his eyes and stared straight into a pair of dark blue eyes belonging to a tanned face graced with an abundance of freckles over the cheeks and the bridge of the nose.

It was a boy - yes, a boy, he was sure now, older, maybe a bit younger than My, but way older than himself. The face which was now fairly looming over him was framed by dirty blond, short, straight hair. The boy was deliberately blocking his way of escape and what frightened him was a rather ugly sneer on his face.

'What did you find, Harry? What is it?' Another face appeared next to the first and he had to blink in surprise because it was the spitting image of the other one. No, not exactly, as there was no sneer on this face, no open hostility, no will to pose a threat. Sherlock looked into a kind and open face dominated by dark blue and sparkling eyes, 'Oh! - Hello! What are you doing here?'

The voice was nice too, kind and honest and despite the all-consuming fear which made his heart pound wildly in his chest he felt it safe to answer this boy's enquiry, 'I'm here ... because of the storm ...'

'Ooh, a baby!' Harry sneered, 'Are you afraid of the lightning, baby? Will you have to poo-poo in your pants because you are so afraid?'

The other boy rolled his eyes to downplay the hostility of his brother and crouched down in front of him, 'Nothing to worry! It'll be over in a jiffy. It's pouring down now, that's why we came in.'

Sherlock nodded eagerly and invested in a little smile which only lifted one corner of his mouth thus giving him an air of indecisiveness, 'Yes, I noticed that the thunder has become quieter and that it is probably moving away. I know that you have to count the seconds between the lightning and the thunder to know how far away it is ... But I was going back home now anyway.' His precocious explanation and his attempt at bravery didn't go unnoticed and he earned an encouraging nod from the friendly boy.

'Ah, listen to Mr Smartypants ... You were going home? So you say ... but _I_ don't believe you, you baby! You were probably going to sit here in the corner and cry your little heart out, weren't you? _Cry-baby, cry-baby_ ...'

'Harry, stop it! Don't be so bloody stupid. You can see that he's frightened, so just shut up!'

'Why should I? He's such a smartass! And don't forget, I'm the elder by ten minutes so you are not going to tell me what to do!'

But - really - that was only a half-hearted attempt at a jibe because Harry had already lost the enthusiasm to rile the little black-haired boy and was much more interested in exploring the shed. The rain was still beating down mercilessly and it seemed they were going to be stuck in here for a little while. And she might as well make the best of it.

The other boy sat down next to Sherlock, 'What are you doing here? Are you alone?'

Sherlock glanced at him sideways, he was a bit intimidated by unfriendly Harry and to be honest by this older boy who seemed to be interested in him as well. He wasn't used to this kind of attention, he was used to fend for himself, to play alone, to talk to himself. His own older brother wasn't interested in his forays into the imaginative wilderness around their house, he'd rather be stuck in his room all day and study. My was too old to play with him, they said, the _age gap_, as Mummy called it, too wide and so he was used to isolation, used to it and liked it really.

'Yes, I'm alone. But I often come here to play. I ...' he looked at this boy, too shy to divulge his secret immediately, but the smile he received was open and trustworthy, so he whispered, 'Don't tell your brother ... or anybody ... you must swear!'

The boy smiled and shortly glanced in Harry's direction, 'My brother? ... Right. Okay.' He turned to him and softly said, 'Cross my heart and hope to die.'

Sherlock nodded, apparently satisfied with the answer and moved a bit closer, 'This is my base where I have all my stuff, my weapons and equipment.'

The boy whispered back, a smile on his face, 'What do you need weapons for? Are you a robber?'

'I'm a pirate,' the little pale face was a study of holy earnestness and eagerness and the older boy felt quite honoured to be told, he was a cracker, that little one.

'Oh, that's great. Can I play with you? Will you hire me as a crew member? Please?'

'Maybe ... but you must know that I'm the captain, you can only ever be the first lieutenant. But I will tell you everything you need to know.' His slanted bright eyes gleamed with delight and the rain that was pelting down on the roof was almost forgotten, the unseasonal thunderstorm only a hazy memory. Here was a wonderful adventure in the making, one that would make all his fears disappear.

Harry came sauntering back to them and smirked when she saw her brother sitting on the ground next to this baby. A strange little boy, that was. Harry scoffed, just look at his clothes, who would wear a shirt and trousers on a warm day like this? And the way he looked – like a pale version of one of those Italian boys down the road where they lived. All those black curls and his eyes, they were so – she squinted – they were eery, so bright, so translucent, almost like ice. Harry shuddered, this boy looked like a real weirdo.

But so typical for her brother to play the kindergarden nurse. He was always so understanding, soo boring and sooo childish. How could he even talk to that boy? They would be nine in a few weeks, they weren't babies anymore - She rolled her eyes in exasperation and crossed her arms in front of her chest. She watched these two for a moment longer, they were going on about some childish stuff the little one was showing her brother. When they paid her no heed, she nudged her brother's foot to get his attention.

'I'm leaving,' she said in a rather bored, nasal voice, 'I'm running back to the cottage, it's almost stopped raining.' She made a show of studying her fingernails and as casual as possible she added almost as an afterthought, 'I think I will go to the village to get an ice cream ... coming?'

Sherlock glanced up at Harry and then at the other boy, he feared that they were going to leave him here and he felt something inside his heart, a kind of tug or pull, something that he had only ever felt when Mummy had scolded him or left him alone in his room _to think about what he'd done_. He was afraid to be left alone again, he really, really wanted him to stay – 'Nah – you go, I'll join you later,' the boy said and Sherlock bit his lip to prevent himself from crying out loud with joy.

'Suit yourself,' Harry shrugged and it was clear that she was disappointed that her brother had chosen that little stranger over herself. She sauntered out of the shed and made her way back to the holiday cottage where she and her family were staying over the weekend.

The two boys she had left behind in that shed, one just turned five and the other one almost nine years old, one black-haired, the other one fair, one used to solitude and one never alone, spent a wonderful afternoon playing in the woods surrounding the little duck pond and the shed. The trees, dripping wet with the remnants of the torrents of rain, acted as the masts of their ship, the mizzen and the main mast rigged with colourful sails. The rays of sun were doing their best to heat up the earth again, making nature smell like summer although it was only the end of March. They played daring captain and swashbuckling first lieutenant on a wild and dangerous pirate's frigate, they roamed through the woods on a treasure hunt, they even spied out some innocent hikers daring to cross the paths of the rakish pirate bunch.

Sherlock had the most wonderful time and only when the fair-haired boy had gone home did he realise that he had forgotten to ask his name. Panic flooded his heart for a moment and he cursed his forgetfulness, but then he remembered that the boy had told him where he and his family stayed. He had told him that they had rented one of the holiday cottages near his parent's estate, and Sherlock vowed that he would go and visit his new friend tomorrow.

When Sherlock finally plucked up enough courage to visit two days later, another boy belonging to another family opened the door of the holiday cottage leaving him none the wiser as to whom the boy had been and it left him feeling strangely disappointed and alone. But this day had gifted him with a memory and whenever he was lonely or sad he would pretend to play with a fair-haired boy who was his first lieutenant and since he didn't know his name, he made one up for him. After a lot of painstaking research and a period of trial and error, and without ever telling anybody about his little secret, he finally settled on a name.

And from that day on the little pirate captain always played with a fair-haired fantasy friend named Jack.

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**A/N **I hope you liked that … Please tell me what you think, your opinion is always very much appreciated!

Thank you so much!

JJ

**Please note**: I decided to have an age difference of four years between the boys simply because it suits my storyline …


	2. Spring, April

**Years later John and Sherlock meet again by accident and share a secret …**

Please note: A _fag_ in British English is slang for cigarette **  
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**SPRING **

_**April**_

Seeking seclusion John Watson sneaked around the corner and away from the cheering crowds to walk to one of the little outbuildings next to the rugby field. It was far enough not to be caught so easily and near enough to be back in an instant should the need arise. While he was walking over the immaculately kept gravel paths he marvelled at the sheer number of little white outbuildings which were as spick and span as the rest of this rather posh public school - _Boughton Hall Independent School for Boys_ as it was quite pompously called.

John had come here this morning with his school rugby team to take part in a tournament. It was yet another rainy day, a Friday to be precise, in a rather dismal and wet April. John sighed and put up the collar of his jacket against the light wind and drizzle. Thankfully there were only a few more days to go until Easter - and then it wouldn't be long and he could leave school behind and finally start living.

This tournament was part of a series schools in the district played out during the school year. All kinds of schools took part, really. State schools, public, inner-city, rural, posh schools, you name it and it was there to be found. John and his rugby mates were rather fond of these regular excursions as they were a good opportunity to get out and about.

His team had won the first match this morning, lost the second an hour and a half ago, and now they had to wait for the outcome of the match which was being played between a small rural college and Boughton Hall at the moment. John, always one to recognise a golden opportunity when one presented itself, had decided to sneak off for a quick smoke.

'Damn it!' he cursed under his breath when he rounded the corner of the farthest outbuilding and saw a figure crouching on the ground. When he saw smoke billowing from this person's nose he relaxed - it was a perpetrator just like him, someone breaking the school regulations, smoking a forbidden cigarette, a kindred spirit – good!

The other smoker was sitting on the bare ground, his back leaning against the wall, his knees drawn up to his chest, a book propped against them. He gave the impression of being totally absorbed in his reading, a cigarette dangling between his fingers, occasionally guiding the fag to his mouth to take a deep, greedy drag. He wore the school's uniform, so quite obviously one of those local _toffs_ … and boy, did he fit the bill!

John slowly walked up to him and tried to figure him out. From what he could see he had a pale, angular face with very pronounced cheekbones and a long, what his silly mother would call _aristocratic_, nose. He couldn't see much more because his head was bowed and a mass of black curls was obstructing parts of his face. The fingers holding the cigarette were equally pale, slender and quite feminine, elegant even – _Posh all right!_

John scoffed and shook his head, he hated the way his parents stubbornly adhered to those old patterns, class and all, and he should definitely know better than to judge a book by its cover. Sure enough there was also an air of defiance about the way this boy sat there, smoking a forbidden fag - an air of defiance that quite appealed to John.

He stood close to the boy now, but he showed no sign of having noticed him. 'Mind if I joined you?' John asked after an awkward moment of silence and fished his half-empty packet of cigarettes out of his windbreaker.

The boy didn't even glance up, 'It's immaterial to me what you do.'

'Oh, right! That's settled then,' John didn't take offence at all, he quite liked the unapproachable attitude of this boy. Because that's what he was, a _boy_ - John could see it quite clearly now. He must be thirteen, maybe fourteen, but not older than that, lightyears away from his own age, almost eighteen.

John sat down next to him on the bare ground, which earned him an annoyed quirk of one eyebrow, and rummaged around in his pockets for a lighter. '_Jesus, _there's always something – I forgot my bloody lighter. Can I use yours?'

An exasperated sigh and a curt, 'Haven't got one,' was all the reply his inquiry elicited and John smiled – he sure was a tough nut, that one.

'Well, give us your cigarette then, so I can light mine.'

The look the boy shot him was worth the trouble of keeping a straight face himself. The expression on the boy's face was clearly one of disgust in the light of the indecent proposal that he had just been presented with, but then he surprised John by simply handing over the smouldering stub. John nodded his thanks and lit his own cigarette with it. He took his first drag, relishing the merciful hit of nicotine and closed his eyes, still holding the boy's cigarette. After a moment he felt the touch of cool fingers and the cigarette butt was taken away from him only to be stubbed out with the heel of a rather dirty shoe. Dirty shoes? Another evidence of defiance, John remarked with a smirk.

He glanced at the boy who was fumbling to get out his own packet of cigarettes. He made sure that John watched him when he fished out another cigarette and a shiny silver lighter. He lit up and inhaled, his eyes never leaving John's, fixing him with a definite dare-to-contradict-me-stare which made John laugh. This reaction earned him a lopsided smile which was rather endearing and John quickly glanced away. He cleared his throat and tried to concentrate on his own cigarette which, he suddenly realised, needed much more attention.

He flicked a speck of dust from his trousers and let his gaze wander to the little shack opposite, obviously used as a garden shed or something … but wondering about its various uses soon lost any appeal and John glanced back at the boy who had taken up his book again and was busy pretending to be reading, obviously trying to build an invisible wall between them.

'Interesting?' John asked nonetheless.

'Hmm?'

'Your book. Is it – um - interesting?' _Bloody hell_, he really was a tough nut, but John was determined to get an answer, 'Is it?'

'What's it to you?'

'Nothing – just making conversation,' John shrugged and took another drag letting the smoke billow out of his nose and mouth like a real man.

The boy glanced at him, 'Just don't. Nobody ever does and I don't see why you should change that.'

Right! - Now that was a definite chink in the armour and John was determined to hack away at it mercilessly. He turned and fully faced the boy, a smile playing around his lips, 'Nobody talks to you. Isn't that interesting! How come?'

This time the boy's sigh expressed exasperation as well as annoyance, 'Maybe I don't want to talk?'

'Why on earth not? Nobody can be silent forever! You must talk!'

'You're wrong.'

The boy looked at John then - and he did so a bit longer than was absolutely necessary, as if he had seen something in him. John could fairly see the thoughts and ideas running riot in his mind, see him making connections, ruling out possibilities, could see the turmoil behind his bright eyes. Suddenly a moment of recognition, a spark of genuine interest flickered in his strange eyes. Sadly this spark died as quickly as it had come and that was it. John blinked in confusion, he was mesmerized and attracted by what he had witnessed and he cleared his throat noisily to chase away the unwelcome emotion.

Pretending to be utterly bored and unaffected by the whole situation the boy broke eye contact and casually turned back to his book. John glanced at him sideways, but no more interaction was to be had from this enigmatic student with the dark curls who was smoking behind a shed in the school compound defying all rules when he was …?

'How old are you anyway? I'd say twelve, thirteen - fourteen the most. Definitely way too young to smoke.'

'You can talk! You're younger than me!'

'The fuck I am! I'm almost eighteen,' John snapped.

'Oh, really?' said with another quirk of the brow and one of those lopsided smiles that gave John the feeling he had been played. He quickly glanced away, embarrassed. He couldn't think of a witty reply so he just smiled sheepishly, but the boy had already turned his attention back to his book and the slowly smouldering cigarette dangling between his lips.

'Holmes!' a loud voice suddenly boomed to their left, making them start, 'What do you think you're doing here? This is the third time this month that I catch you smoking. You know what that means, Holmes?'

The boy had quickly scrambled to his feet and threw the cigarette away, 'I guess so,' he said rather coolly, letting the smoky remains of his last drag billow out of the corners of his mouth. He appeared calm and even winked at John. 'I believe being caught three times is the equivalent to suspension of two or was it three days … _Sir_?'

He had spoken in a surprisingly low voice and John realised that he had the ability to adapt the pitch of his voice to the aims he wanted to achieve. Now he quite clearly wanted to rile this teacher who had caught him breaching the rules. He couldn't help but admire the guts of this Holmes boy. John noticed that he had also drawn himself up to his full and gangly height which was, despite his young age, quite impressive - taller than John was anyway.

The teacher cleared his throat and, unconsciously recognising a superior mind when he encountered one, turned away from Holmes, disgust and disapprobation for this insolent boy written clearly all over his features. He turned on John instead, who of course was breaking the rules just like Holmes was, but who at first glance appeared to be a much more pliable victim. Under the teacher's deprecatory stare John got up from the ground as well, trying to get rid of his cigarette unobtrusively.

'And who are you if I may ask?' the teacher snapped, his face the unhealthy colour of a beetroot, 'Don't tell me – You simply _must_ be one of the players from the tournament. Well, that's it for you two. You come with me, Holmes,' he grabbed the boy by the elbow and yanked him to his side, 'And you, you go back to your team. What's your name? And don't lie to me, I'll find out anyway if you do!'

John looked at Holmes who arched a sarcastic eyebrow and smiled a very smug smile. It was evident that the wrath of this teacher could not touch him, the armour was securely back in place, the chink mended.

'Watson, Sir. John Watson. Smithsfields College.'

'Right, you two. Off we go.'

When they trotted back to the rugby field behind the teacher like the young delinquents they were, they didn't speak a word, but John could feel the scrutinizing gaze of this quite extraordinary boy linger on him from time to time. When he glanced at him he saw a very serious face, concentration written all over it, but he was seemingly well out of reach and completely and deeply lost in thoughts.

John lightly touched his arm to indicate his support and to shake him out of his reverie. The boy started as if he had come back from a trance, but then he smiled at John. It was the first real and open smile he had given him. John felt this might be something rare and answered it willingly.

The teacher made sure that John was taken back safely to his team, and no doubt about it. In front of several of his team mates he gleefully told Mrs Jameson, his PE teacher, about his unbelievable transgression. She sternly frowned at him and admonished him loudly for the benefit of the other teacher and her own professional outlook on the job, but when she'd finished she winked at John almost imperceptibly and John knew the consequences wouldn't be too severe.

The Holmes boy, with an air of utter indifference, had stood a bit to the side and had listened impassively, and once this little charade was over he set off to follow his teacher who was undoubtedly going to take him to the headmaster for a good telling-off.

But he wasn't quite defeated yet and in one last blatant act of defiance he stopped in his tracks after a few yards and walked back to John. What he said then was completely incomprehensible for John and would stick with him for a long time.

This outstanding boy leaned close to make sure that no one else would overhear. His breath tickled John's ear and gently caressed his cheek when he whispered, 'So your name is John then?' a low chuckle followed this rhetorical question that sent shivers down John's spine, 'I don't really know about that … I guess you'll always be Jack for me.'

Then he drew himself up to his full height and smiled at him. And with a wink he sauntered away to follow his teacher, leaving a John behind who was equally bewildered and intrigued by this young man and his parting remark.

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**A/N** Thank you so much for all your reviews, favs and alerts, this means so much to me … ;-D Please keep it up!

I'm sorry to say that you will have to wait a bit longer for an update because I will be away for more than a week and I'll have no internet connection …

JJ


	3. Spring, May

**It's May and their love story begins …**

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**Spring**

_**May**_

It was the tenth of May and John Watson was celebrating his twenty-fifth birthday with his good friends Tom, Trevor and James in London.

A carefree, and hopefully, long party night was exactly what John wanted, and quite frankly, what he needed. The last miserable months had been full to the brink with studying until the early hours, indescribable fatigue during his double shifts at the hospital, far too much coffee and way too many cigarettes, and - let's not beat around the bush - a lousy, because nonexistent, love life. John was more than determined that today would be a turning point.

He could be proud of himself that the first major step of his medical training lay behind him, and that he had passed with flying colours. The next equally decisive step was about to begin as his army training and his attachment to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers with the goal of becoming an army surgeon were imminent. But before army life would wholly embrace him in a few weeks, he wanted to celebrate his birthday and simply have a bit of fun.

They had chosen a highly frequented pub in central London as the starting point of this night. John had to admit that it looked like the American tourist's dream of a typical British pub, from the wooden benches over the hanging baskets in full bloom to the colourful pub sign _The Bishop's Arms_ dancing jauntily in the light evening breeze.

The benches of the overfull outdoor area were occupied by a young and international bunch and even more tourists were filling the narrow streets. Milling about like ants they were emanating a certain nervousness that seemed to simply wash over John and his friends who were sitting like the proverbial rock in the middle of this chaos. In fact they rather enjoyed the giggling Swedish, German or Italian language students clinging together in groups and passing the already slightly inebriated English lads. Some more or less original chat-up lines were occasionally shouted after the lovely girls which either earned the boys a wink or a giggle or they were simply ignored - depending on the temperament – It was all a bit of harmless fun really, and John enjoyed letting go amongst his friends.

Looking around John leaned back contently and downed the last sip of his lager. Taking in the array of empty glasses on the table he announced, 'My shout, lads!' He grabbed a few of the empty glasses and went into the pub to get more drinks.

Coming in from the still bright and sunny evening into the almost empty and gloomy pub he had to blink a few times to adjust his eyes to what seemed to him near darkness. Slowly he made his way up to the bar and slapped down the empty glasses on the counter with a bit more force than was strictly necessary before he placed his order, 'Two pints of lager, one bitter and one cider, please.'

'Coming' the lovely blonde barmaid said and flashed him a professional smile. John answered it automatically, to be honest she looked okay, maybe after her shift, if nothing else arose…? He leaned a bit over the counter to catch a glimpse of her ample and jean-clad backside - _Nice!_ He smirked and lazily turned around to lean against the counter and to let his gaze wander idly around while he was waiting.

The room was almost empty apart from a few regulars at the bar and one corner table occupied by two men. Their demeanour spoke of so much discomfort, of an overwhelming wish to be anywhere else but here that they immediately piqued John's interest.

One of them was leaning back, long legs outstretched, slouching on the chair, his posture speaking of boredom. Evidently he was trying to put as much distance between himself and the other man who was leaning forward on the wooden table trying to close the gap the other man was creating.

John was amused, this looked like an interesting scenario and he had always been one to love human drama and to see emotions unfold. He crossed his feet at the ankles and leaned his elbows casually on the counter, resuming a posture of complete ease, ready to watch.

The older of the two men was around thirty, maybe a bit older, maybe younger, hard to tell really as he had one of those faces which appear slightly out of date and old before their time. He looked very dapper, dressed in one of those light grey three-piece suits which, John was sure, hid an old-fashioned grandfather's watch complete with splendid watch chain in one of its pockets.

His darkish hair was neatly cut and slicked into place with just the right amount of pomade. Despite the dry and sunny day a black umbrella was dangling from the back rest of the chair and an expensive, but timeless leather briefcase was slumped against the chair leg. There was nothing fancy or flimsy about this man as he leaned forward eagerly and talked down on the other, much younger lad. From what John could make out he was speaking fiercely, in a quiet, but sibilant voice, the expression on his face quickly changing from eager to exasperated, before fairly freezing into an utterly annoyed and disillusioned one.

The younger man, whose lean back suggested he was very slim and maybe even gangly, was more casually dressed in dark trousers and a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up as a tribute to the warm evening. He was evidently uneasy, yet somehow compelled to hear out the words that were whooshing incessantly past him. John was absolutely sure that he wasn't even listening. Instead he simply endured what seemed to be standard procedure and was staring straight ahead at a point slightly to the right of the other man's head.

John narrowed his eyes, he was wondering what they were going on about, what they were to each other. Maybe employer and employee, or rather unlike friends or it was a lover's tiff? John smirked and dipped his chin, sometimes his fantasy really liked to somersault.

Suddenly the older man sensed that he was being watched and an expression of righteous indignation flickered over his face. He turned his head and looked straight at John who quickly averted his eyes and turned back to the counter as if nothing had happened. Thankfully there was a mirror above the rows of liquors and he could continue his observation without being overly conspicuous. He didn't even know why he was so interested, but whatever or whoever they were, there was something about these two men and their conduct which was holding him captive.

The older man said something to the young fellow and motioned towards John. Ever so slowly the younger man turned his head and stared in his direction. John dropped his gaze, but not quickly enough and their eyes met in the mirror for a second.

'Here you are, love. Two pints of lager, one bitter, one cider. Five seventy, please.'

John winced inwardly, he felt disturbed by her intrusion, but there was no way around it, so he paid the barmaid. After one look at the overly full glasses he knew that he had to walk twice to carry all this stuff outside, 'Back in a mo, love. Can't take it all at once.' He flashed a quick smile at her and grabbed two of the drinks.

On his way outside he looked over at the two men, but they had turned their attention elsewhere and all John could glimpse was the back of the younger man's head, a riot of dark curls over a long, pale neck. John quickly glanced away lest they should catch him staring again, and carried the eagerly awaited drinks out to his friends.

'John, what took you so long? Did they have to brew the lager first?'

'Bartender's a bit slow. Sorry, lads,' he huffed indignantly as if it really bothered him, 'Have to go back in and get the rest.'

John didn't lose any time, he fairly slammed the drinks down on the table and went back inside, but when he furtively glanced at the corner table, the two men were gone. His heart inexplicably clenched and disappointment crept into his thoughts. John's steps faltered, he couldn't grasp his reaction - What was it to him after all? He shook his head to chase away all those confusing and frankly useless thoughts and quickly made his way to the bar to get the remaining two drinks.

When he turned away from the bar he was caught completely off guard when he stared straight into the bright, slanted eyes of the young man who had crept up behind him as stealthily as a cat on a mouse. John was startled and some of the content of the glasses sloshed over and onto his shoes. 'Bloody _hell_,' John cursed and set the drinks back on the counter.

'I'm very sorry,' the young man said in a low voice, 'I didn't want to startle you, Jack.' John was busy mopping up the bitter and cider from his shoes, but when he heard this name, he straightened his back and looked at the young man, a puzzled frown knitting his brows.

'Jack? I'm sorry, but I think you mistake me for somebody else,' John said, and tried a non-committal smile.

'I really don't. I know exactly who you are,' and the way he said it, his voice full of confidence, it was evident that he did indeed. John peered at him more closely, he _did_ look familiar somehow - the bright eyes, the dark hair, the curls, the height - but he couldn't for the life of him say where he had seen him before.

John couldn't place him, but he became aware of the feelings the close proximity of this young man evoked in him. Unconsciously he took a step backwards because he stood so very close, the concept of personal space apparently not one he adhered to – unless of course, he was doing it on purpose. John cleared his throat and tried an insecure little half-smile which was answered by a strangely reminiscent lopsided one.

The smile seemed familiar - John tilted his head to the side, he narrowed his eyes and looked more closely at the young man in front of him.

'You have no idea where you have seen me before!' Not a question, but a statement - not exasperated, but slightly amused, 'Let me help you, then. A thunderstorm, heavy rain, a little pirate captain?'

John squinted, he pondered on what he had been told, he really tried to place him, but then he shook his head, this didn't ring any bells.

'You were on holiday and you were with your brother that day. He was quite nasty, but you weren't. You were nice.'

'My brother …?' John knitted his brows.

'Yes,' the young man looked at him, hope in his eyes that he would remember, but John only shook his head again, 'No, I'm sorry …'

'Maybe this will trigger your memory: A young insolent schoolboy, smoking behind a shed, being caught by a teacher. A rugby tournament?'

'Oh …'John exclaimed, 'Oh! - Right. Okay. Yes! That was you?'

The young man nodded, another one of those lopsided and very appealing smiles playing around his lips.

'You are … _Holmes_, right?'

'Sherlock Holmes,' they shook hands and John marvelled at the improbability, at the one in a million chance that they had met again.

'John Watson.'

'I know,' Sherlock said, 'I guess I can drop the _Jack_ now.'

'Sure,' John conceded and smiled, a tad insecurely. He still didn't know exactly what this Sherlock Holmes was talking about and why he had insisted on calling him Jack. He only had a hazy memory of an unruly teenager he had met years ago - _No wait!_ - There was a bit more he remembered - a stubborn defiance that had appealed to him then.

John smiled again, more assured now, and although the silence between them had grown, it wasn't awkward at all. He might not remember their first encounters clearly, but he knew for sure that this young man standing in front of him was interesting, captivating, exciting even and fascinating and that he wanted to know more about him now that they had met again in such an unlikely fashion. His love life might have been nonexistent in the last months, but he was experienced enough to recognise the signs and he was very keen to act on them in the case of this Sherlock Holmes.

John motioned towards the full drinks, his voice taking on a warm undertone, 'I was just taking these out to my friends … would you like to join us?'

'Sorry, I'm not one for idle conversation and quite frankly after the telling-off my brother just gave me I'm not in the mood for more people.'

'Oh! Yes! Your – um - brother?'

'Mycroft Holmes. Unfortunately duty called and he had to hurry back to his office - Always so willing to make himself indispensable, my brother dear,' Sherlock grinned, mischief glinting in his eyes. 'I was quite surprised that he agreed to meet me here and to frequent this more than _common pub_. But then again he has never been one to miss out on an opportunity to give me a piece of his mind.'

'Brothers, eh?' John snorted, and then he saw the moment to clarify, 'By the way Harry is my sister, it's short for Harriet.'

'Your sister? I'd never … But your twin sister surely?'

John nodded and then quickly changed tack because he didn't like the turn their conversation had taken, 'Would you mind waiting a second? I'll be right back with you. Just wait … right … here, okay?'

Sherlock gave a slight nod with his head and leaned against the counter, his eyes following John outside and a little smile curling the corners of his lips. Maybe this evening wouldn't be a complete waste of time after all.

'John, what the _bloody hell_ have you been doing in there?' Trevor said and winked at Tom and James, 'I'd say that the barmaid is quite decent, but I believe you could definitely do better, birthday boy.'

John grinned to appreciate the feeble joke, but then his face grew serious, 'Guys – um – I met a very old friend in there – um – haven't seen him in a while. Would you mind me leaving you for half an hour or so … I'll catch up with you in the club later?'

John's friends glanced at each other, that wasn't what they had expected from this night out, wasn't what they would expect from the John Watson they knew at all.

'I don't know, John,' Tom said after a moment of awkward silence, 'I mean it's _your_ birthday and all, but the three of us came to London especially to celebrate with you.'

'I know and we will, I promise. It'll be half an hour or an hour the most and then I'll join you! I promise,' John slapped James on the back, 'Right, that's settled then. See you, guys.' He winked at the other two and went inside again.

John's friends were surprised by his behaviour, in fact they had rarely been dumped as unceremoniously as that before and certainly not by the affable and considerate John Watson. After a bit of grumbling they decided to finish their drinks and to move on to a club and celebrate their trip to London as planned - _with or without Johnny, what the heck! _

Before they set out to continue their party night in one of London's clubs Tom excused himself to go inside to the toilet, and when he came back into the pub room he couldn't resist trying to catch a glimpse of John and his friend. He looked around and finally found them sitting in a secluded corner towards the back. They didn't notice him and he made sure they wouldn't so he could take a moment and secretly watch them.

John and his friend were lost in conversation, talking in low voices, their faces glowing and animated. He noticed how intimate with each other they appeared, the way John laughed and how he smiled when he glanced at the other man. And there certainly was a familiarity in the way the dark-haired young man leaned close to John to underline something he had said. He seemed a bit younger than John and quite different. Where John was muscular and glowing he was lean and pale, but in an elegant way, and from what he could see he was very good-looking.

Tom quickly averted his eyes because it suddenly felt like an intrusion and a breach of trust to spy on them. Tom was John's closest friend and the only one who knew that John had always been interested in both sexes, knew it in fact because they had had a fling a while back. It hadn't worked out for them and now he was surprised to feel a pang of regret when he watched John with this handsome stranger. It hurt to see the way they connected.

Tom turned on his heels and went outside to his waiting friends. Before facing them he was careful to school his face into a cheerful expression, he didn't want to give anything away.

'Well, that's it for us here. Let's move on, lads.'

James and Trevor noisily got up and downed the rest of their drinks. 'What about Johnny? Did you see him and his friend? Did you talk to them?' Trevor asked.

'Yes and no, but don't you worry about him!' Tom said, 'I bet we won't see him in any club tonight!'

'Oh, really? John's really one lucky beggar!' James said with a beaming smile, followed by a little burb, 'Scuse me, gentlemen … Is it the girl behind the bar?'

'Not quite … but I'd say he definitely pulled a looker,' Tom said, a slight rawness to his voice which made the others glance up and look at him inquiringly. He shook his head to indicate he was okay, 'Come on, lads. Let's get a move on. London's waiting for us!'

oOo

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and fixed his gaze on John. He had recognised him at once when their eyes had locked in the mirror. He hadn't changed much – well, as much as seven years changed a person when they shaped a teenager into a man. His eyes were as dark blue and sparkling as he remembered them, his face as kind and gentle – _calming_ was the word which seemed to be caught in an endless loop in Sherlock's mind, fairly knocking other contenders like _handsome_, _exciting, strong-willed_ or _determined_ out of the way, ruthlessly taking the predominant position.

For Sherlock John Watson was a truly handsome man, what with his sandy-coloured, straight hair which framed a lightly tanned face, and the way he smiled - His smile was special, it was so open and without any hidden agenda or pretence that Sherlock couldn't help but drown in it. He was used to hiding his feelings with Mycroft or Mummy or with the few people outside his family circle he interacted with and it was a revelation to just look at John and to be able to relax without having to force his face into a carefully arranged neutral or bored expression.

Sherlock enjoyed just to sit there and to listen to John talking about his medical studies and his goal of becoming an army surgeon. From time to time he asked a question to keep the conversation going and to indicate his genuine interest in John's life. He was utterly relaxed, for once at ease with himself and his surroundings.

Without thinking he suddenly reached over the table and touched John's wrist, sliding his fingers lightly up and down the soft skin there and then over the back of his hand. John didn't flinch, didn't withdraw his hand, but extended his fingers as if relishing the touch. Then he slowly turned his hand over so that their fingers touched and intertwined them.

Sherlock inhaled sharply, then he looked up and their eyes met. 'It feels … good,' he softly said and John nodded. John moved his fingers ever so slowly over Sherlock's and this new sensation of being tenderly and purposefully touched made Sherlock's stomach lurch and his skin tingle. It felt like tiny butterflies flying against the confines of his chest making him resonate from within. When John slowly leaned forward to close the gap between them his heart was pounding so wildly that he was convinced John must hear it. He didn't mind, he was determined to ignore it - he wanted him to come closer, even closer, always closer.

This was very new and very surprising for Sherlock - The fact that he wanted John to be near him, the fact that he wanted to feel him, the fact that he allowed his feelings to spiral out of control without regretting it. It was new for him that he actually enjoyed being with somebody and that John's company had the power to dampen the roaring chaos that was always, _always_ within him. He was awed that there seemed to be almost silence and peace now and how good and normal it felt.

John had watched his face and had seen the turmoil in those amazing pale eyes, but he also saw that peace and calm were gradually settling over him. He gently placed his other hand against Sherlock's cheek, making their connection complete, but he was careful to keep his touch only feather-light. Sherlock leaned into it like a cat into a well-earned caress. His eyes fluttered closed and he put his cool fingers over John's hand to hold him there. John smiled, seeing Sherlock gentle and docile was tugging at his heart and being so close to him that he could see every detail of his remarkable face was very arousing.

He leaned forward and without hesitation he pressed his lips lightly on Sherlock's soft mouth. Sherlock's eyes flew open in surprise and John broke off, he had no intention of frightening him. But when Sherlock smiled and leaned forward to claim John's lips in a more urgent, more determined kiss he answered John's unspoken question and chased all lingering insecurities and doubts away.

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**A/N** Thanks again for all your reviews, favs and alerts! It's such an incentive to know that you like this story … Please keep it up! JJ

Where I come from the month of May is commonly regarded as the month of love, so I thought this would be the most appropriate moment of the year for their love story to begin …;-D


	4. Summer, June

**It's summer and the story moves on to John and Sherlock in an established relationship. They will have their ups and downs, arguments, tender and funny moments. There will be danger coming from the outside and there will be some important decisions to be made. **

**This chapter – **_**June**_** - deals with absurd dreams and nightmares …**

**Enjoy reading!**

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**Summer**

_**June**_

John woke with a start. He had fallen asleep in his chair in front of the cold fireplace, the crime novel which hadn't possessed the power to keep him awake still in his hand.

Someone laughing wildly had woken him.

Bewildered he glanced around the gloomy living room - apart from the eerie, blueish shimmer of a small working lamp in the kitchen and a small reading lamp next to his chair there wasn't any source of light - but it was enough to make out the silhouette of Sherlock lying sprawled over the sofa, fast asleep.

John, still in the grip of sleep, blinked a few times and brushed his hands over his tired eyes. He stretched his arms and circled his left shoulder to loosen his stiff muscles and to relieve the tension that seemed to have taken permanent residence there since the … incident.

The thought of Afghanistan was like a shadow passing over him and it made John shudder. He lightly shook his head to chase this unwanted intruder away, the memory was fading, yes, but it was a persistent fellow, and not one he could easily get rid of, no matter how hard he tried. Lately it wasn't only Afghanistan which bothered him, no, he also relived his involuntary encounter with this maniac Moriarty again and again. It proved almost impossible to overcome the utter powerlessness he had felt, being decked out in explosives and used as a means to lure Sherlock into a trap – He felt manipulated, used, spat upon because this powerlessness was so at odds with his self-perception as a soldier, as a maker, as one not to be intimidated easily.

And right now this blasted memory had enough power to make his heart beat faster and to urge him to breathe in and out steadily to calm down his poor heart. John sighed, he pressed his lips together and dipped his chin, he was surprised how much this all troubled him and how hard it was to forget - but forget he must.

John cleared his throat and shot a glance at Sherlock to assure himself of his presence. He tried to focus on him and to figure out what it had been that had woken him a moment ago.

Sherlock, as he was lying there, offered no clue at all – he was lying flat on his back, motionless, his head resting against the arm rest of the sofa, his arms clutching the Union Jack cushion like a shield to his chest. Something was out of the ordinary, though, and John wasn't entirely sure if the weak light wasn't playing a trick on him – There was no doubt that Sherlock was sleeping, but a lovely smile was lighting up his features - and all of a sudden laughter rang out again, loud and unrestrained.

John quirked a surprised eyebrow and a second later raised the other one almost to his hairline when the sleeping Sherlock began to giggle like a schoolboy. Despite the haunting memories which had been troubling him only moments ago John couldn't help but smile at the obvious mirth of his more often than not so serious, overly controlled and cerebral lover.

'What's so funny, Sherlock?' When the words had left his mouth and had travelled from John's chair trough the dusty air of their living room over to the sofa John realized that he had spoken aloud to his sleeping friend.

To John's surprise an answer came promptly, 'You should never wear green, John!' followed by another giggle, 'You – Should – Never – Wear - Green!'

John was amazed to see that Sherlock even wiggled an admonishing finger in the direction of the cushion which seemed to conveniently have taken John's place in his dream.

'Why on earth not?' John inquired, opening his arms wide in a gesture indicating incomprehension - he was baffled.

'John, there's a grasshopper over there, John!' Sherlock absurdly said, irritatingly changing the subject and ignoring John's inquiry completely. This being Sherlock, sleep obviously wasn't an impediment to making him sound indignant.

'What do you want me to do about it, Sherlock?' John said, barely able to keep the amusement from his voice.

'You need to get it back outside obviously! It needs grass to hop … oh, there comes his mother … Hello!'

John snorted, and quickly pressed a hand to his mouth to prevent himself from laughing out loud. He closed his eyes and his shoulders heaved with barely suppressed laughter. When he had calmed down enough, he dared glancing at Sherlock again and bathed in the glory that was his serene and relaxed face. Suddenly he felt the urge to be much closer and so he got up and walked over to him, kneeling on the floor next to the sofa. Now he could see his face more clearly, could feel the warmth emanating from his sleeping body, but his presence wouldn't wake him - yet.

'His _mother_, Sherlock?' he softly asked and bit his lips.

'Yes!' Sherlock said dreamily, 'She's lovely, isn't she? Look at her, that bright sprightly green, it's outstanding!' his voice had gone soft with all the admiration for the grasshopper's mum and he smiled a sweet and enchanting childlike smile. 'But you, John – you should definitely never wear green!'

John was very amused by Sherlock who was talking about grasshoppers and colours in his sleep and whose razor sharp intellect therefore seemed to have reverted to the more mundane and even childish questions of life.

Sherlock did that from time to time - talk in his sleep - naturally more often than not it would happen during the night and John would only register him talking away in a state of half-awake drowsiness. Usually he would go through details of a case or some experiment which bugged him and he could get rather cross when John wouldn't offer the expected retort - Expected from a dreaming Sherlock's point of view, of course.

John had taken to ignore him and to feign sleep whenever Sherlock addressed him at night. But tonight everything seemed to be quite different and he enjoyed their little absurd exchange. If nothing else it helped him forget his worries and fears.

They had been on their feet almost constantly for the past three days, chasing a ruthless kidnapper through London. Lestrade had more than once tried to get Sherlock to rest, but he could have been talking to a stone wall for all the good it did. The chase had been successful, the hostage freed, the kidnapper in custody. John and Sherlock had barely made it home and not further than the living room where the exhausted Sherlock had collapsed onto the sofa and had fallen asleep almost instantly.

John had been less certain to find sleep because the case of this kidnapper had hit a bit too close to home for his liking. So he had reverted to the eternal British formula of calming one's nerves and had brewed a cuppa first and then grabbed a book to relax in his favourite chair. Hence this golden opportunity to listen to Sherlock talking sweetly in his sleep.

'Why not green?' John tried to get him conversing again, 'I have a very comfy moss green jumper I'm rather fond of and I never heard you complain about it! Sherlock, tell me, why don't you want me to wear green?'

'It's obvious, isn't it? Green is only suitable for grasshoppers,' another low giggle, 'And as far as I am aware of you're not one of those tiny grasshoppers, love!'

'That's good deduction, my clever one,' John softly said. With a grunt he got up from the floor to fetch the tartan woollen blanket from his own chair and covered Sherlock with it. It was June, but the night was frisky and Sherlock was cold easily. He smoothed some unruly curls from his forehead and placed a tender kiss on his warm lips.

'Thank you, love,' Sherlock murmured drowsily in a moment of clarity before he dipped back into deep and soothing sleep.

'You are always welcome,' John whispered and returned to his chair, picking up his book. Maybe he could read another chapter before he would turn in as well.

John found it hard to concentrate on the rather ludicrous case of a profiler working together with a female DI, trying to worm his way into the mind of an overly crazed and cruel serial killer. When he hit a particularly unrealistic description of a crime scene he let the novel sink down to his lap and closed his eyes.

But blasted sleep continued to elude him as his thoughts, finally unleashed and rendered uncontrollable by his exhausted mind, were wildly roaming through the last days, lingering on the case, darting to the last weeks and years. Glimpses of his past, of their past, shortly surfaced only to drown in the dark recesses of his mind again.

He saw a glimpse of Sherlock on the day they had moved here to 221b Baker Street, happily smiling and optimistic. He relived snippets of countless arguments, inescapably circling around the same issues – _You're not alone! Why must you be such a self-centred bastard? – I'm not like you, John. I don't feel that way_ – _Grow up, will you!_

His sleepy heart grew heavy when his thoughts briefly dipped back to the time when they had split up, shortly after John's fist deployment. Life together - or rather apart - simply hadn't worked out for them and they had both felt it better to make a clean cut. They had stayed friends and met from time to time when John had been on leave.

His mind inevitably danced through that horrible time when he had been invalided home and when the army had seen it fit to honourably discharge him. He had been deemed no longer capable to work as an army surgeon, what with his intermittent tremor in his left hand and the psychosomatic limp. Sherlock had been uncharacteristically caring and open then, he had been there for him and they had found back together.

And then their move to Baker Street had marked a fresh start, the beginning of a completely new life for John. Becoming Sherlock's partner in all fields of life – in his private as well as in his professional life as a consultant detective - had given him a new perspective, a new goal. Now they were solving crimes together – that's what he always answered when the nosy inquiry came. Yes, that's what they did, and he loved it.

John was infinitely glad that his sleepy mind had decided to end the associative journey through his life on happy memories and smiled. He glanced over at Sherlock who still slept the sleep of the just. John exhaled and let his head slowly sink on the backrest of his chair. And when he closed his eyes, sleep finally came.

oOo

Sherlock was dreaming, vividly and quite pleasantly until someone not too far away was screaming in anguish, in pain, in desperation. He flailed his arms to chase away the piercing, gut-wrenching sound, it was troubling, but by God it was persistent, it just wouldn't budge. He opened his eyes wide, surely the sound would be gone, a memory, once he had opened his eyes – surely …

Sherlock sat up with a start, he was uncomfortable and way too hot because he was covered with a woollen blanket and he was clutching a cushion to his chest. Puzzled he looked down on the smooth fabric of the cushion, now crumpled, looked up again and tried to find his bearings when the screaming started anew. His head instinctively flew to the side, irresistibly drawn to the origin of this wailing and then he realized that the source of this desperate sound was John.

'John,' Sherlock sat up on the sofa. He disentangled himself from the clingy woollen blanket and stumbled over to John who was slumped in his chair. He was asleep, but his face wasn't peaceful as usual, instead his eyes were screwed shut tightly and his mouth formed a pained grimace, he was clenching and unclenching his fists, and what shocked Sherlock the most, he was whimpering like a child.

'John, what's wrong?' Sherlock whispered and gently touched John's face. He used the pad of his thumb to impede the course of some tears which were running freely down his face, ever so gently as he didn't want to frighten him more. John didn't wake entirely, but his ragged breathing slowed down a bit as he inhaled sharply a few times. Sherlock dropped to his knees and gathered John in an embrace. 'Sherl …' John whispered, still half-asleep, and clung to him 'Sherl… he's going to get me. He's coming for me.'

'No, he won't, John. He won't come as long as I am here. You know that I will protect you,' he spoke softly, but his voice was very insistent, set out to convince that John's fears were completely unfounded. 'He'd never come near you again when I am here. You know that, love, don't you?' Sherlock weaved his fingers through John's sleep-tousled hair, smoothing it down like the flustered feathers of some frightened bird. 'You know there's no need to be afraid.'

John looked up and opened his eyes then, they were still unfocused and far away, but the feelings Sherlock's voice conveyed managed to break through to him even if the words might not fully register. 'Yes … as long as you're here …' he mumbled and let his head sink on Sherlock's shoulder, '… as long as you're here.'

Sherlock continued to caress John soothingly, and after a while he felt his breathing slowing down and John's head on his shoulder growing heavy. Sherlock knew that John needed rest after the last unholy three days, and unlike him he preferred their bed to the sofa, so he slowly got up, gathered John in his arms and carried him the short way to their bedroom. He was lean, but strong and he wasn't even panting when he gingerly lowered John onto their bed. Sherlock made sure to cover him with the warm duvet, he was cold so easily, his John.

Standing beside their bed he looked down on his pale face and leaning down he merely ghosted his fingers over John's forehead, not wanting to disturb him. 'I'll be with you in a second, love,' he whispered to offer reassurance although he saw that John was fast asleep again.

There was something he needed to do before he could lie down next to John, so Sherlock went back to the living room and grabbed his phone from the coffee table. His fingers were fairly flying over the small buttons while he composed a message.

_It's back again – and he really suffers. We need to do something about it - SH_

_I'll keep my eyes open. He won't come near John - MH_

The corners of Sherlock's lips curled into the ghost of a satisfied smile when Mycroft's answer came and he was content to leave the phone on the little table and go back to John. He closed the bedroom door with a soft thud to shut out all possible intrusions and turned around. Watching over John and carefully checking his state - steady breathing, no hectic fluttering of eyelids and no tears streaming down his face – kept Sherlock occupied and calmed him.

Being in control always calmed Sherlock. Knowing that he would protect John with his life calmed Sherlock. Knowing that he was indeed capable of protecting John, and was prepared to do whatever it took, calmed Sherlock - immensely.

He shrugged out of his trousers and unbuttoned his shirt, slowly, each button undone adding to his determination. He dropped the shirt to the floor and slipped under the duvet next to John. He snuggled up to him, draping his arm over his chest and belly. John stirred and Sherlock placed a soothing kiss on top of his head and rested his chin where the kiss had landed.

They were a perfect fit, Sherlock's taller and lean frame to John's shorter and compact one, and it was more than essential that he should hold him as closely as possible now. Sherlock buried his nose in John's hair and inhaled the warm, sleepy scent of John that seemed to accumulate there – If he was honest he had to admit that he needed John's closeness, his warmth and reassuring presence just as much as John needed his unconditioned will to defend and protect him.

Not that he would ever tell John that there was indeed ground to worry or that his protection and vigilance might prove necessary.

Sherlock glanced over at the window, the curtains were not drawn and the pitch black outside with only the faintest greyish tinge to its edge crowded unfiltered into the room. It told Sherlock that dawn was crawling near, and placing another small kiss on John's head, he relaxed and realised that he wouldn't get one more wink of sleep that night. He also realised that he didn't mind at all.

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**A/N** Thank you so, so, so much for all your feedback - You really make my day! Please keep it up! JJ


	5. Summer, July

**The first part of this chapter was the very first bit I wrote for this fic (during the heat wave in August) and while reading you might reach the conclusion that the author - quite possibly - shares Sherlock's attitude towards heat ;-D**

**There you go, have a bit of sexy fluff … with a twist! **

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**SUMMER**

_**July**_

'Obscene,' Sherlock muttered.

'What is?' John called out from the kitchen.

With disapproval Sherlock noticed how cheerful John sounded. He didn't bother to reply immediately, but listened to John - who had just come back from Mrs Hudson's flat, fixing a clogged pipe in her bathroom - clanking around in their kitchen. He heard the sharp thud of the heavy tools landing next to his abandoned experiment on the kitchen table and then the squeaking of John's soles when he turned to wash the dirt off his hands in the sink.

'This … _heat_. These … _temperatures_!' he eventually clarified. Sherlock's disembodied voice floated from the living room into the kitchen and his obvious distress and weariness made John grin. 'Everything it _does_ to my body. It's superfluous, it's disgusting, it's inhuman, it's … uh …'

John took his time to carefully dry his hands on a rather stained tea towel - they really needed to get some washing done - and walked over to his distressed love. The living room was rather dark as Sherlock had drawn all the curtains against the blinding light. John found him lying sprawled over the leather sofa, clad only in a pair of black briefs, and he made sure to take a moment to appreciate the splendid sight this sweltering July heat presented him with.

Sherlock had taken the trouble to drape a towel over the sofa to allow his skin as little contact as possible with the battered leather. As he was lying there, completely motionless, he looked like a human X, long arms and legs spread as far apart as anatomically possible. His eyes were closed in an effort to shut himself off from this tormenting reality, and his face bore an expression of utmost discomfort. He looked unhappy, disgruntled and utterly, utterly bored by this inconvenience.

John noticed that Sherlock's lovely and usually so pale skin was flushed with the heat. His elegant long limbs draped over the sofa looked limp and weak for once, his lean body was gleaming and his skin fairly glistening with sweat.

John's tongue darted out like a lizard's in reaction to this very appealing sight and his lips curled into a smirk. He kneeled down next to the obviously oh so distressed Sherlock - he simply had to because he looked so flustered and annoyed and yet so lovely - and planted a kiss on his sweat-covered forehead.

'You're sweating from lying motionless on the sofa? How is that even possible?'

Sherlock slowly opened one eye, closely followed by the other, and peered at John who looked irritatingly cool, calm and collected. 'Don't try to tell me you are _not_ hot, John! That's downright impossible with these temperatures!' There was outrage in his voice, indignation, disbelief and impatience.

'Actually … no!' John replied blithely, 'I like this kind of heat, always have. The hotter it gets the better. It makes you feel alive, reminds you that there is more to summer than rain for weeks and dismal temperatures. It's …'

'_Don't_, John!' Sherlock interrupted him, 'You going on about heat makes me even hotter! It's a psychological phenomenon that merely talking about something uncomfortable can worsen the symptoms. I can _feel_ the blasted heat pooling inside me right now just from _listening_ to you. I can feel it getting ready to break out in sweat on my skin, ready to torment me. So, please refrain! And don't touch me again unless your body temperature has fallen below zero!'

'Right – Okay. I won't,' John innocently held up his hands, but he was unable to hide a rather smug smile. He got up briskly without breaking a sweat, his smooth move earning him another irritated glare from Sherlock. 'I'll get something cold to drink. How about you?'

'No, it will only give my body more ammunition to torment me.'

John snorted and left Sherlock to his misery. He went into the kitchen to get that bottle of ginger ale he had conveniently placed in the freezer compartment of their fridge before going down to see Mrs Hudson.

Sherlock groaned and to alleviate his agony a bit he dared to move his left leg which was draped over the back of the sofa. It was only a tiny movement, just gently peeling his bare leg off the leather, but it produced a distinctly obscene noise which made John's hair stand on end and caused Sherlock to utter a sigh which spoke of suffering beyond imagination. He closed his eyes again and refrained from further movement. It was strictly unbearable, unacceptable, this heat which was washing over him constantly and relentlessly, quite obviously designed by an ill-tempered god solely for the purpose of torturing him.

Sherlock was bracing himself for an eternity of senseless suffering when he suddenly felt a very distinctive source of heat coming nearer and nearer and then felt it hovering right over him. He knitted his brows in frustration.

'I _said_ don't come near me, John,' he growled, 'I mean it! If you come any nearer, John, I swear I will … Oh!' his tirade was cut short by the sensation of ice cold lips on his chest. 'Oh!' Sherlock muttered once again as if the power of coherent speech had left him when those lips had commenced skillfully kissing an icy and delicious path on his skin.

Despite himself Sherlock's lips curled into the ghost of a smile and he considered resigning to the situation, at least for the moment. It was hard not to, when John's ice cold tongue flicked delicately over his nipple, teasing it to stand erect in the aftermath of a particularly icy kiss, and then moved on to the other side leaving a trail of goose bumps on Sherlock's overheated skin. He inhaled sharply through his nose, only to let the sucked in air gush out in a soft moan.

Fighting his reluctance to move, and heroically defying the blasted heat, he wiggled a bit and tried to lean into this cooling sensation. Opening his eyes was too much trouble, though, and he didn't move overly much - no lifting of a finger, no touching of John - but he enjoyed the sensation of being cooled down externally whereas inside him heat was pooling excitingly in all the right places.

John noticed his struggle and smirked, it was so like Sherlock to lie there motionless and lazy and just give himself to his loving ministrations. With the heat and Sherlock's attitude towards it, John hadn't expected anything different and he didn't mind, oh no, he was more than willing to oblige.

He sat up and grabbed the ice cold bottle, beads of condensation running down the sides, and took another sip. His eyes never left Sherlock's face and with smug satisfaction he registered the look of chagrin on his features at the loss of contact. John's lips cooled down once again, he bent down and started to kiss a trail of icy pecks around Sherlock's navel, leaving chilled patches of flushed skin behind. John nipped at his skin, grazing his teeth over it and lovingly licked over the skin on his belly like a cat lapping up cream. While doing so John never ceased to watch Sherlock, he loved to see how he squirmed in response to his touch, obviously still fighting the urge to give in fully to his arousal. He smiled against his skin and dipped the cool tip of his tongue into his navel. Feeling Sherlock's body tensing some more, he intensified his efforts and sucking the sensitive skin just below, teasing the blood to the surface, eventually elicited a low, abandoned and drawn-out moan.

But Sherlock's reactions were still somewhat restrained, and so John placed his cool right hand on his shoulder blade and gently trailed his way over the sharp collarbone down to his chest. When Sherlock didn't squirm away from the sensation of warm fingers on hot skin, John set out to explore more of his body. With his mouth and hands he was kissing, nipping, caressing, biting his sensitive skin, hot with the scorching heat, humid and fragrant.

Sherlock's scent was always very enticing and promising, and today even more so as it was fresh and musky at the same time. John widened his nostrils and inhaled the particular scent that clung to his sides, to his bony hips, to the tender skin of his belly. When his breath ghosted over the fine hairs below his navel and his lips brushed the waistband of his briefs Sherlock moaned again and arched his back, his body betraying his words, 'John, I don't think … it's so hot … maybe we shouldn't ...'

'Oh, yes, we should,' John mumbled against the soft skin of his thigh, placing tender and cool kisses on the inside, 'We most definitely should.'

oOo

Lightning illuminated the room and Sherlock crawled out of the bed to open the windows further when the long-awaited rain finally began to pelt down in earnest. It was the first credible attempt of this night to chase away the lingering heat.

Sherlock greedily inhaled the rapidly cooling air, the cooler breeze widening his chest. He climbed onto the window ledge and leaned into the wind and rain, the drops drumming a sharp rhythm on his overheated, naked skin. Greedily he gulped down the wet air and reached out into the cooling night as far as his arms would allow him. He tilted his head up into the rain and leaned hazardously far out of the window and into the darkness. The rain beat down on his face and smoothed down his unruly curls, it beat on his shoulders and his chest – and it was bliss, pure bliss – refreshing, rejuvenating, exhilarating.

When the rain abated after a few minutes Sherlock slipped back down from the window ledge and shook his hair like a dog coming in from the rain, sending the drops flying. He glanced over to the bed where John was lying on his belly, apparently sleeping, his naked back glimmering in the dim light cast into the room by the street lights. Sherlock grinned mischievously and swiftly climbed onto the bed to hug John close, his chilled, wet skin making contact with John's sleep-warm and soft back.

'Get off, you clot,' John mumbled drowsily, 'You're wet like a stray mongrel coming in from a stroll.'

'Don't you like it?' Sherlock breathed close to John's ear in his lowest possible pitch of voice, the one which John had appropriately labelled _bedroom voice_, and John chuckled.

'It's … interesting,' John sleepily conceded, 'But it's also wet – very wet actually, so get off!'

'Ah well, you're definitely missing out on something,' Sherlock casually said and flopped onto his back next to John.

'Oh, really?' John turned over and faced him.

'Really!' Sherlock grasped John's hand and guided it to his hair, his shoulder and down to his chest, letting John's fingers slowly slide through the cool raindrops that still lingered on his skin.

'Hmm … Nice,' John murmured and half-closed his eyes, 'Really nice.'

'Told you so!' Sherlock couldn't keep a certain level of smugness from his voice, but softened it with a kiss to John's fingers. 'Rain like that? … It always makes me think back. You know, ever since that afternoon when we first met I loved rain … _Jack_,' Sherlock said, grazing his lips over John's hand in soft and hypnotic circles, his eyes glued to John's face.

'_Jack_?' John repeated and tilted his head to the side, 'It's bloody time you explained why you called me Jack the first times we met. You never did.'

'I didn't?' Sherlock frowned. 'Shall I now?' he asked and when John nodded he gathered him in his arms like a father would when a bedtime story was about to be told. John settled his head on his chest, right above Sherlock's heart and nodded again, his fine hair tickling Sherlock's skin pleasantly.

'As a little boy I abhorred thunderstorms, didn't like the following rain either, ' Sherlock's voice was soft and low when he started to speak, a pleasant rumble beneath John's ear, 'I understood the theory behind it all, of course - it's hardly quantum physics - but I dreaded the grim reality of thunder and lightning. Mycroft would only laugh at me, call me a little girl, and mother, quite conveniently, would never be at home when I was afraid and comfort was needed. So my fears grew into a much bigger proportion than the matter warranted.' He paused, much for effect as for the will to phrase it correctly, 'But that afternoon in the little shed when you and Harry found me, cured me of those fears.'

'Oh really? How?'

'You took me seriously, you talked to me, you were friendly. It wasn't much that I needed, just a bit of attention. And you gave it to me,' Sherlock kissed the top of John's head.

'But what about the rain, you said, ever since then you loved the rain?'

'Yes, I can't say that I cared much for thunderstorms, even after our encounter. I lost the fear, but I still didn't like them. But rain? I loved rain ever since that day we played pirate captain and first lieutenant in the woods, dripping with the remnants of the torrential rain of that afternoon.'

'This … is … quite neat … and … touching,' John seemed to be lost for words, he was moved, he was surprised, amazed, he had had no idea how much their first encounter had meant for Sherlock. 'What about that name though? Why on earth did you call me Jack?'

'I had forgotten to ask your name that afternoon and I had been devastated. But I'd never been one to give up easily, even at the age of five, so I invented a name. I eventually settled on Jack and from then on you were a constant companion of my childhood. Whenever I needed a playmate you were there. I could rely on you. You were my imaginary friend …'

John sat up and faced Sherlock, 'What about … real friends?'

'None,' Sherlock simply said.

'I'm sorry, love,' John said and he really was. How sad for a child to grow up without friends. He remembered their second encounter when Sherlock had told him that nobody talked to him, and John had put it down to attitude, but now he saw his defiance and brusqueness in a different light. John leaned down and kissed his lonely childhood friend, tenderly and possessively. 'I'm here now - your _Jack_, and no longer a fantasy,' John whispered against his lips and Sherlock smiled.

'I know,' he murmured, 'I still marvel at the fact that I had no trouble recognising you when we met again. You know I don't believe in fate or other mumbo jumbo, too much uncertainty for my liking, but … you and me …?' Sherlock broke off, as if the words were there, somewhere in his mind, but had difficulties finding their way out into reality. The muscles of his jaws were working with the effort to phrase his thought correctly and precisely. 'It's as if I had always lacked a heart and you were meant to be _it_ … my heart – You were menat to make me complete, you …' he broke off again, glancing aside.

John nodded, he understood, and he also understood how alien it was for Sherlock to talk about his feelings and he appreciated and valued the effort so much more for it. 'Yes,' he simply said and kissed him again. He placed his hand over Sherlock's pounding heart, 'Head and heart, that's what we are, Sherlock.' John looked at him and then traced his fingers along the angular lines of Sherlock's tense face, 'That's what we are.'

John embraced Sherlock and felt him relax in his arms. Being close to Sherlock, feeling him, smelling him and sensing his heartbeat matching the rhythm of his own, was his favourite place to be. He couldn't think of anything else which gave him more peace of mind.

'Head and heart, that's what we'll always be,' John mumbled against his curls and Sherlock decided to be generous and let him have the last word in that matter.

They let go and lay down next to each other, face to face. No need to speak, they just watched, observed, noticed. Lacing their fingers together, thus ensuring contact, John's eyes eventually fluttered closed. Sherlock continued to watch him, his relaxed face, his serene and handsome features - he loved to observe how John slowly drifted from wakefulness into sleep.

In contrast to him John usually had no trouble calming down and finding rest, and lying as they were, close to each other, safe and comfortable in their dark bedroom, it wasn't long before he was fast asleep. Sherlock listened to his steady and calm breathing which soon lead to a gentle snoring that was so essentially John and never failed to amuse and calm him.

Sherlock's lips curled into a smile and he reached behind his head to adjust his cushion and stretching his back he tried to find a more comfortable sleeping position. Finally cooler and no longer tormented by this blasted heat, he didn't mind John's closeness at all, craved it even, and he knew he would have little trouble finding sleep tonight.

The shrill sound of the text alert suddenly cut through the darkness of the room and startled him; he softly cursed under his breath and snatched the phone from the night table. When he saw that Mycroft had texted him, his senses went into alert modus and he quickly opened the text.

_Lost him, seems to be abroad. But we picked up one of his associates. Questioning him right now – John's name has crept up. Be wary MH_

Sherlock gently placed the phone back on the table, careful not to make a sound. The text was worrying – deeply worrying indeed - after months and months of relative calm this was the first time that Moriarty seemed to crawl nearer to them again.

Sherlock glanced at John who was fast asleep. He had not forgotten John's anguish - how could he? - It was fairly imprinted on Sherlock's mind. What a truly horrendous experience it had been to see John afraid like this.

This horrible nightmare had troubled John more than a year ago, and since then John had seemed much better, had not even mentioned the pool incident once. Of course, this night had always been somewhere in the back of their minds, but cases and their daily life had been more than fulfilling and distracting, and so maybe they had grown a bit too lax, a bit too complacent.

Sherlock cursed his slackness now - _That's exactly what Moriarty is waiting for!_ - and vowed never to let his guard down again. It bugged him that he couldn't track him down on his own, that he had to rely on somebody else and that this somebody – of all people – had to be Mycroft.

Whatever Sherlock might think of Mycroft and his pompous and cold ways, and whatever childish resentment might still linger between them, he had overcome his reserve and put everything aside for the sake of John. He had grudgingly accepted that Mycroft, by pulling a few strings and using his minions to keep an eye on Moriarty, was in fact the only one who could keep him reliably informed on his whereabouts.

Sherlock had never talked to John about his surveillance and his teaming up with Mycroft, though. He had thought it best to keep John in the dark, the less he knew about the whole affair the better - no, the _safer_ for him.

He was more than determined to do whatever it would take to fight Moriarty - he really had no intention to let anybody get to his heart.

* * *

**A/N** I hope you liked this chapter. Thank you so much for all your lovely feedback!

Please keep it up ;-D JJ


	6. Summer, August PART I

**SUMMER**

_**August – Part I**_

'See you tonight, love' John leaned down and kissed Sherlock who was already late for a meeting with Lestrade at the Yard. He carefully closed the heavy door of the car and stepped back to follow the black cab with his eyes until it had rounded the corner. Seeing Sherlock off whenever they had to go separate ways was a ritual and it gave him a sense of comfort, of affinity, of caring – call it what you like – it just made him feel safe.

John quickly glanced back to their home and smiled. They had spent a lazy morning together, had forgotten the time until Sherlock really had to hurry. A gust of wind made John shiver and gently pushed him out of his reverie. The heat of the last weeks had abated and a premature autumnal chill had set in. He wrapped his light black jacket tighter around himself and hunched his shoulders against the wind.

John glanced at his watch - half past eleven - definitely time to get going. Mike would surely be waiting impatiently for him at St. Bart's. When he stepped off the pavement to cross the road his mobile started ringing. He silently cursed and looked down to retrieve it from his breast pocket – _What the hell?_ The blasted mobile was stuck sideways in the small rectangle of sturdy fabric and it took some awkward fumbling to fish it out. All the while the shrill ringing attracted and bundled John's attention making him entirely oblivious for the motorbike which was racing towards him with great speed.

The black and silver machine with a driver entirely clad in black leather only marginally slowed down before it hit John sideways, sending him crashing to the ground. Swaying slightly from the impact the motorbike raced on and only came to a screeching halt much further down the road. The driver sat his feet down on the ground and turned his head to check. Apparently satisfied with the damage done, he made no attempt to help, but revved the engine and raced off.

oOo

'Watson. Dr John Watson,' Sherlock repeated through gritted teeth. The elderly nurse was the fourth person he was talking to and nobody so far had been able to tell him where he could find John. His patience was wearing thin, worries and nervousness eating away at him, impatience begging for release. He started pacing the little reception room in the hospital entrance, his hands flying through the air, nervously fluttering as if they had a will of their own. The slow-wittedness of the person manning the reception desk and the limited capacities of everybody he had met so far in this hospital were too much to take in his tensed state.

'We have no Dr Watson here, I'm sorry,' the nurse eventually said in a bored drawl, she was moving towards the end of her shift and she frankly had enough for today.

'That's impossible. He must be there! – Check again!' Sherlock stopped in front of her desk and drew himself up to his full height. When the nurse turned away from him to snatch a biro from the chest of drawers behind her and then proceeded to flick a speck of dust from her white nurse's uniform, he snarled impatiently, 'I _said_ check again! Do it _now_!'

Annoyed with the tone of his voice the nurse glanced up and looked straight into the distorted face of a man who was obviously very distressed. Such demeanour neither impressed nor animated her. She was used to excited husbands, distressed brothers and sisters or crying mothers and so far none of them had managed to unnerve her.

She bent her head and went through this morning's admissions again. Slowly and meticulously her pudgy fingers ran down each column, her garish red nails scratching nerve-gratingly over the rough white paper. Sherlock clenched his fist, his whole body tensed and the muscles in his jaws were working furiously. He closed his eyes and breathed in and out to calm down.

'Well, there's a J. H. Watson here – he has been admitted three hours ago and he's still in the operating theatre …' she glanced up and just caught a glimpse of the man with the dark curly hair running out of the room. 'You can't go to him now … he's still being …' she called after him. 'Oh what the heck, you're not listening anyway,' she muttered and sighed. When she looked up again it was straight into the expectant eyes of a petite Indian woman, shyly standing in front of her desk, 'And what can I do for you, love?'

oOo

Sherlock hastened along the corridors, passing countless patients and hospital staff, stubbornly trying to find his way around without having to ask another one of those imbeciles. Good grief, how could people like that be given the responsibility to look after patients? People who needed spelling out a name before they were able to find it on a list in front of their eyes?

After turning a wrong corner for the umpteenth time Sherlock grudgingly admitted defeat. He didn't stand a chance to find John in this maze of corridors and identical white doors and so he asked a nurse who happened to pass by. She pointed him into the right direction, not without emphasising that he probably wouldn't be able to see the patient because … Sherlock moved on without hearing her out and set off to find John.

oOo

'No, I assure you. You can't go in there, absolutely not!'

'But I need to see him. I don't understand why I can't. He needs me.'

'I have told you already why you can't go in there. He's in the postanaesthesia care unit and only qualified personnel are allowed in. You have to be patient and wait for him to be awake and fully conscious. Once he has mastered that hurdle we will take Dr Watson to the ICU and you can see him then.'

'Intensive care? Why?'

'Just a precaution. As soon as he's stable, he will be transferred to a regular ward.'

'But I tell you I need to see him …'

'And I told you, it isn't possible,' The doctor was getting irritated and tried to sound stern, but then he remembered his professional training and asked in a more conciliatory tone, 'Are you family? His brother maybe?'

'No, not his brother …' Sherlock hesitated, of course he knew why the doctor had asked that question, and for a second he considered telling him a lie. 'I'm his partner, we live together.'

There was a flicker of distaste on the doctor's face, but he was quick to hide it, 'I see. Mr …?'

'Holmes. Sherlock Holmes.'

'Mr Holmes, please try to stay calm and most importantly, be patient! I'll see what I can do for you later. You can stay here in the lobby and I'll send someone for you as soon as Dr Watson has been transferred to ICU.'

The doctor smiled his barely discernible, but very professional smile and turned on his heels. Sherlock had no doubt that he was already absorbed in his next patient's ailments and would have forgotten him and John in a second.

Left alone he leaned back against the white-washed walls of the plain lobby and let his head fall back. He closed his eyes, and snippets of what the doctor and the police had told him about John's accident raced through his mind.

_A motorbike – a hit-and-run – a broken leg - possibly internal injuries – three-hour operation – no clue so far who had been driving – no witnesses_ -

He winced_ - John had to go through this alone –_

Sherlock let his head fall forward again and buried his face in his hands. Why had he gone to the Yard this morning? Why had he not cancelled that stupid, unnecessary meeting? Why had he not stayed with John? Why had he not accompanied him? Why had he not been there? Surely he could have done something to prevent …

He felt his eyes warming and tears welled up – _Stupid!_ - Stupid, unnecessary, useless and unwanted things which only made matters worse and hindered any logical thought -_Stop it!_ - Sherlock shook his head and blinked back the unwanted emotions, it was crucial that he forced himself to stay calm and detached. No use losing his head now when there was so much at stake - So think – _Think!_

_A motorbike – no witnesses – inexplicable – a hit-and-run …_

A thought, a simple one was suddenly being isolated from the cloud of details swarming in his head. A thought that seemed to be the strongest, the liveliest of them all and it soon occupied the prime spot in his mind, found a place there and stubbornly refused to budge.

_A hit-and-run! A hit-and-run?_

_In Baker Street?_

_Why?_

Yes, of course, it might have been an accident, it might have been simply bad luck that it had happened to John, but somehow Sherlock couldn't believe it. Somehow deep in the back of his mind he knew that this accident hadn't been coincidence at all, that it had been premeditated and planned and John being injured or even worse had been the bullet meant to hit him. And there was only one man who could be behind such a perfidious plan – James Moriarty.

Sherlock gulped and closed his eyes. The rage that he felt was like a haze, it made him sway, made him dizzy. He planted both hands on the smooth surface of the wall to anchor himself to this solid and substantial matter, anchoring himself to something that would prevent him from going mad at this realisation. Sherlock worked hard to conjure up all his patience and the will to stay calm for John's sake or he would have smashed every available window there and then.

He slowly slid down along the wall until he was sitting flat on the floor, he didn't mind the curious looks of others, of family members waiting in the lobby for their loved ones to recover and didn't notice the muffled remarks of passers-by.

Sherlock just sat there and shut himself off from reality. He fairly shrank into himself and reverted to accessing happier memories in his mind palace, in the treasured, well-kept and beloved section marked _John. _

What else in this world was there to prevent him from running wild?

oOo

The young doctor approaching the man crouching on the floor wasn't sure what to make of his demeanour. The man's eyes were closed, he seemed to be far, far away and his hands were dancing a particular and somewhat entrancing dance, long fingers flying gracefully through the air, sliding invisible panels or opening invisible boxes. From time to time a smile would flicker across the man's angular face, lifting the corners of his lips in a childlike and appealing manner.

The young doctor looked on, thrilled by what was going on. What a fantastic sight, seeing someone wholly absorbed in his own world. When a nurse pushed past him, rolling her eyes at the apparently insane man on the floor, the spell was broken and he remembered why he had sought him out in the first place. He cleared his throat to make himself noticed and when this earned him no response he leaned down and gently touched the man's shoulder.

'Mr Holmes? Dr Watson has been transferred to the ICU. You can see him now.'

Sherlock started at the sudden touch and opened his eyes wide. He stared at the man looming over him and then back to the floor and to the walls as if to find his bearings, as if to bring him back and to anchor him to the here and then. He slowly got up and nodded. The young doctor led the way and Sherlock, still dazed, followed him to finally see John.

oOo

His left leg was broken, Dr Hawkins told him, they had operated it, she assured him, no need to worry on that account, she was quick to add. He still wasn't conscious, she said with a professional sympathetic undertone, but he would certainly come around soon. He had been lucky really, as he must have turned away from the bike and had therefore avoided being hit full force.

_But_ – and there was the crux of the matter – _But_, there was internal bleeding - they had stopped it, in fact they were fairly certain to have found the cause – _But_, if it started bleeding again, and there always was that possibility, they would have to operate again. Shouldn't they be able to stop the bleeding or if other complications should arise … Would he by any chance know if there was a patient's provision? Would Dr Watson want them to use every available means to keep him alive?

Sherlock reeled when the hidden meaning of what he had just been asked, hit him - _John might not wake up again, John might not make it, John might die_ – Sherlock turned away from her and his right hand flew to his mouth, wiping nervously over his lips a few times. His fingers were fluttering nervously and the panic started to seep into every fibre of his body.

'I don't know …' he managed to say after a moment, and it was true, he didn't know whether John had arranged for something like that and if wanted to be kept alive at all cost. 'I don't know if he has …' he broke off.

'Are you family?' the young doctor gently asked.

'I'm …' Sherlock gulped, 'I'm his partner, we live together,' and again he knew what was coming.

'So you're not married?'

Sherlock shook his head and half-turned away from her, he couldn't take the pity that was already oozing from her voice.

'Well, Mr Holmes, of course I will give you all the information regarding your partner's state, but if there should be any complications and we have to decide what to do …' she stopped when she saw the realization of what she was trying to convey flicker across his face, closely followed by pain, 'I'm very sorry, but you're not family and that's why you won't be allowed to decide anything on his behalf. If Dr Watson hasn't arranged for a patient's provision, only family members can decide. I am very sorry, Mr Holmes.'

'Yes,' Sherlock weakly nodded, 'I'm sure you are.'

'Is there any close family?'

'John has a twin sister who lives here in London. Harriet Watson. But they are not close and I'm sure John wouldn't want her to decide anything on his behalf. And frankly, neither would I.'

Sherlock realised that he sounded like a petulant child, but he couldn't help it. Dr Hawkins raised a finely plucked eyebrow and Sherlock felt being judged. He, who usually couldn't care less about other people's opinion, felt irritation and anger building deep down in his stomach, bubbling up and threatening to spill over any moment and he felt helplessness and a sense of injustice join the anger and team up. They were all flexing their muscles, daring him to keep them under control.

His eyes flickered past the young doctor and to the door which stood like a barrier between him and John. John who was in there, fighting for his life, and Sherlock realised that if they didn't let him see John right now he would become uncontrollable. He stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets to hide their trembling and to keep himself from raising a hand against the doctor or to smash the shelf or the door or whatever should cross his way.

When he spoke again, though, nobody would have noticed the tornado of emotions that was raging within him, 'Can I see him now … please?'

'Of course you can,' she said, a friendly and oblivious smile on her face, and opened the door to John's room. She cast one last look at the man with the dark hair and turned her attention to her pager which had gone off for the umpteenth time this morning. She turned on her heels and set off to attend to her next patient.

Sherlock stepped into the room and closed the door with infinite care lest not to disturb John. He took a moment before he slowly turned around. John was barely visible between all the machinery surrounding him, the bleeping and beeping the only constant sounds in the dimly- lit hospital room. Sherlock braced himself and walked up to him, afraid of what he was about to see - an unnaturally calm and weak John, just a shell and not the man he loved and knew so well - But when he looked into John's face he saw that he was unchanged, very pale and a waxen shine to his skin, but still his John, no doubt.

Sherlock stutteringly exhaled when his barely upheld resolve crumbled at the sight of him, and a mixture of grief and sympathy and anger overwhelmed him. He touched John's hand, carefully, gently and with infinite tenderness and the warmth of John's skin ran like electricity trough his fingers, making him soothingly aware of John's presence. He was careful not to break the contact of skin on skin when he sat down on a chair next to the bed and began his vigil.

oOo

'Sherlock,' a soft voice whispered, 'Wake up, Sherlock.'

Sherlock raised his head and glanced over his shoulder. Mycroft was standing behind him, a look of genuine concern on his pudgy face, the usual pompous airs and graces absent for once.

'What time is it?' Sherlock asked, barely stifling a yawn. The room was almost dark safe for a small glaring light on the wall behind John's bed. Sherlock couldn't remember having switched it on, so it must have been a nurse.

'Time for a break, Sherlock. Let's go outside for a moment,' Mycroft started towards the door, not without unobtrusively checking John's state. He was informed, of course, had talked to the doctors and he had been briefed by his sources about the circumstances of this incident. He didn't falter in his step, didn't wait, he was certain his little brother would follow him.

Sherlock gently extricated his fingers from John's weak grip and kissed the back of his hand to soften the loss of contact. He got up, but couldn't just leave him and leaned down to brush his lips over his forehead - How silent he was, how quiet - He would have given anything to hear him ranting about the bloody racer now - _Jesus, you should have seen him, Sherlock. What a bloody idiot. He really shouldn't be allowed to drive_ – Sherlock's lips curled into the sad imitation of a smile. Assured as he could be that John was safe for the moment, and that there wasn't anything he could do for him, he turned and followed Mycroft outside.

oOo

'I was of the conviction that you gave up smoking ages ago,' Mycroft raised a disapproving eyebrow. A cigarette with Sherlock was never only a cigarette, it was a statement, a weakness, a step backwards even, but more importantly it was an indicator that something was deeply and profoundly amiss.

Sherlock didn't answer, but lit the cigarette he had cadged from a fellow sufferer, and inhaled greedily. He narrowed his eyes and squinted at his brother through the blue smoke billowing out of his mouth and nose.

'Do you know anything more depressing than smokers outside hospital doors, brother dear?' Sherlock asked, glancing around the small area reserved for those who couldn't abstain. When Mycroft heard the sarcastic way he was addressed he knew that no reply was expected and just leaned on his umbrella, casting his eyes down, buying some time before being confronted with the questions which were unavoidable.

'What use are your minions, Mycroft?' Sherlock eventually asked, his voice cold and distant. He took another drag from his cigarette before he let it fall to the ground and stubbed it out with the heel of his shoe, the fierceness of this movement witness of his temper.

'What use are those blasted overpaid men of yours when they fail in the _one instance_ it would have mattered? Tell me, Mycroft? How could this have happened? How?'

Sherlock had moved closer to his brother with every hissed word, recklessly invading his personal space knowing full well how hard it was for Mycroft to endure anyone's proximity. Mycroft gulped and accepted Sherlock's anger. He nodded briefly, thereby taking the blame.

'I'm sorry, Sherlock. I really am. I assure you we had no idea …' he realized that this was an inept way of explaining it and rephrased, 'We knew that something was coming, rest assured, Sherlock. But we lost one man last week and ever since then we were not quite … up to date.' How hard it was to admit his failure, even harder to admit it to Sherlock who never abided laxness and wouldn't exercise leniency. 'Do tell John I'm sorry, will you?'

Mycroft stared down on his black, impeccably clean shoes, slightly tilting his hips backwards and rocking on the balls of his feet. Sherlock scoffed, Mycroft knew that this half-hearted attempt of an excuse was not nearly enough. He wanted a name, somebody to hold responsible. But taking in Mycroft's forbidding posture he realised that he would never hear from him who was behind this massive cock-up.

Suddenly he couldn't stand the proximity of his brother any more, abhorred the stale stench of all the cigarette butts on the ground. With an expression of disgust he turned away, 'I'm going back up to John. I left him alone long enough.' For a split second Sherlock hesitated before he added, 'One more thing, Mycroft. Don't tell John who was behind his accident. I don't want him to know, understood?' Mycroft slightly tilted his head to the side, indicating that he had indeed understood. 'Good. And do try to avoid another mistake while I'm gone, Mycroft.'

With that he turned and went back inside, leaving his brother alone and miserable in the bleak smoker's area.

oOo

Sherlock opened the door to John's room and recoiled. The small room was crowded, the air fairly cackling with tension and Sherlock immediately picked up a sense of urgency. The young female doctor, Dr Hawkins, and another, considerably older doctor, a surgeon judging by his clothes, were milling about. A nurse was disconnecting various tubes and arranging equipment - and there was Harry, John's twin sister.

'What are you doing here?' Sherlock hissed in her direction and quickly closed the gap between them. Harry turned around and raised an eyebrow.

'What do you think, Sherlock? I am here because John – my _brother_ – had an accident. I am here because I worry about him.'

'You haven't worried about him for years, Harry.' Sherlock's voice was cold, he could not forget John's anguish all those years ago when it had become evident that he couldn't count on his family. 'Where have you been when he was invalided home? Where have you been when the army discharged him?' With every reproach he moved closer towards Harry, violating her personal space, 'Where have you been when he went through PTSD? Where, Harry? Do tell me!'

Harry's gaze flickered past Sherlock, she was fighting hard not to lash out at him verbally. She had learned the hard way in the past that she stood no chance against him. He would always, always beat her on that account – and of course, he wasn't entirely wrong. She had not been there for John when he had needed her. She had not been able to as she had had to fight her own demons then.

'I'm not saying you are wrong, but you know why I wasn't there for him, Sherlock.' She took a step backwards, trying to free herself of his looming presence. 'You know bloody well, why…' Harry dared glancing up at him. But she flinched when she saw the look of utter contempt written so clearly all over his face.

She hardened when she realized how much he despised her, and somehow his contempt helped her to attack, 'Where have _you_ been this morning? Sherlock?' She raised her voice as if this might help her to win this round against him. 'It happened right there in front of your bloody flat, am I right? Right there in Baker Street. And where have _you_ been? Playing detective again?' Her voice had grown even louder, cold and cutting, causing the doctors and the nurse to look up.

They exchanged a glance and the surgeon was the one to speak, 'Excuse me, Mrs Watson?'

'Yes,' Harry answered, somehow relieved that someone interfered. 'That's me - But I'm his sister, not his wife,' Harry felt the need to clarify, and she was glad for the opportunity to turn away from Sherlock who was seething inside and who fought hard to bite down some hurting remark.

'Well, you are family, that's all that matters. Ms Watson, we need to know whether there is a patient's provision and if there isn't any, you, as his closest family have to decide on his behalf …'

'But I'm the one living with him!' Sherlock barged in, indignant that he was passed over just like that, 'I'm his partner. It should be me who …'

'I'm sorry, Mr Holmes! We really have no time for this childish competition. Dr Watson needs to be operated again. And legally, you have no ground to stand upon. Only family can decide here - _You_ are _not_ family.'

The doctor's words felt like a sharp slap across his face, and involuntarily Sherlock took a step backwards to put a distance between him and what had been said. It hit him hard that he couldn't do anything and neither his brilliance, nor his sharp wit and not even his love for John would make a difference now. He felt utterly helpless and put into his place.

Sherlock lowered his head, glancing sideways to try to catch a glimpse of John who was being prepared for the second operation, and his heart clenched in panic – _He was going to lose him and there was nothing he could do or decide_ - He took a few steps towards his bed to look at John, to drink in his pale face, to memorise him – his John.

Sherlock was careful to avoid looking at Harry, who, he was sure, must be triumphing. Had he cast aside this childish competition, and had he mustered the courage to look up at her then, he might have seen a flicker of sympathy ghosting across her features and they might have been able to take a tentative step towards each other.

As it were, Sherlock couldn't bring himself to meet her gaze, and so this moment passed unnoticed and the chasm between them deepened some more.

* * *

**A/N** _August - Part II_ will be up as soon as possible … ;-D

Thank you all for your feedback, my dears! You really know how to make my day! JJ


	7. Summer, August PART II

**The first part of this chapter was inspired by a lovely piece of fanart by reapersun. You can find the link to it on my profile page!  
**

* * *

**SUMMER**

_**August – Part II **_

'Mr Holmes?' Sherlock's head shot up and he fixed his piercing ice blue eyes on the resolute elderly nurse who had told him to wait in the corridor twenty long and aggravating minutes ago. 'You can go in now. He's awake, very impatient, and he has asked for you ...' she raised her eyebrows in a fashion clearly indicating long-term suffering and added with a sigh, 'Repeatedly.'

Sherlock got up from the uncomfortable wooden chair in the hospital corridor, almost toppling it over in his impatience. He nodded a curt thank you and stepped past the nurse into John's room. The room was dark save for the lamp above John's bed and on a quick cursory glance nothing had changed. But the atmosphere was completely different to what he had felt in here barely twenty-four hours ago – Then the air had been thick with a sense of urgency, of desperation, finality even, now the atmosphere was much lighter, less burdened.

Sherlock quickly walked up to John who struggled to sit up in his bed when he saw him, wincing when the numerable contusions and his broken leg hurt with the movement.

'Sherl …' he softly said, his voice croaky from lack of use and the aftermath of the operations. He cleared his throat and tried again. 'Sherl … love.'

Sherlock gingerly embraced John and gently helped him to sit upright. But after those long hours of worries and waiting his subconsciousness wasn't willing to obey his will and when a more basic instinct kicked in he wrapped his arms completely around John's upper body, defying all consequences and holding him tight. John ignored the stabs of pain this movement caused, the relief of holding Sherlock was overwhelming and overriding any discomfort, the joy of his warmth and presence more than compensation for the pain.

Sherlock for once couldn't speak, his chest felt constricted and he couldn't force his vocal chords to produce even one single, meagre, pathetic sound. It was as if the sensation of holding John, whom he had believed lost, was taking command over his whole body, silencing him. Wordlessly he held on to John who gently stroked his hair, and let his fingers trail a gentle path down his back, soothing him. Suddenly Sherlock's knees gave way and he inelegantly slumped to the floor. Kneeling next to the bed he buried his head in John's lap.

John was only mildly surprised by this intense reaction, he knew that Sherlock tended to lock away emotions, and once he allowed those buggers to roam freely, they overwhelmed him. He continued to stroke his hair, to smooth down the unruly curls, to whisper sweet endearments, 'It's alright, love. There… It's fine, don't worry. Everything will be okay.'

John's voice was so soft, almost a chant, and the tenderness washing over Sherlock was purifying him, chasing away the fear and the anger and the hate which was burning inside him - _Oh, how he hated this blasted reckless driver, Harry and most of all Moriarty_ – But he could never tell John, couldn't tell him about Moriarty, couldn't add to his fear and anguish. No, he was never to know.

The rhythmic stroking and John's gentle voice were almost hypnotic and Sherlock allowed those dark feelings to diminish and to fade. He welcomed the sensation, it felt like a weight being gradually lifted off his shoulders, but he was aware that it was only an illusion. It was simply impossible to soothe away the seething anger inside him, and he knew that all those emotions were just being pushed to the back of his mind for the time being. It was an illusion he was glad to accept nonetheless.

How absurd was this situation, this reversal of roles? John who had been severely injured and who had gone through two operations, was the one comforting and supporting him, was encouraging him, was the one effectively holding them together.

After what seemed an eternity Sherlock lifted his head and clumsily got up from the floor. He turned away and dusted down the knees of his trousers to hide his slight disconcertedness, but John would have none of that and tugged at his sleeve urging him to sit down next to him on the bed.

Sherlock obliged and took a moment to watch John's face, his intelligent and gentle eyes which were resting on him inquiringly, and again he felt the peace and calm which emanated from him settling over him like a fine mist. He dipped his gaze and found that he had to clear his throat before he was able to put into words what had fairly immobilised him during the last hours.

'Some PC at the Yard broke the news to me what had happened to you. I immediately rushed off to the hospital, but nobody could tell me where you were and I got so confused. When I had eventually found you and saw you lying in that bed, unconscious, I was so afraid, John. So afraid … and so … _angry_.'

He fairly spat out that last word and cast his eyes down to their hands again, somehow absurdly ashamed of this outburst. His thumbs were absentmindedly circling over John's dry skin in an oddly familiar and soothing motion.

'I know … I _know_, love.' John answered, 'I'm pretty pissed off myself.'

Sherlock snorted, there it was, John's deadpan humour.

'You are?' Sherlock lifted his eyes and looked at him, memorising his pale face, the faint rosy tint to his cheeks, the slightly drawn and gaunt look to his face that seemed to be an inevitable companion of being confined to hospital. But he also saw that twinkle that he loved so much in John's dark blue eyes.

'What do you think?' John huffed indignantly, 'If I should ever cross the path of that bloody idiot who raced me into hospital, I'll fucking forget myself – _Jesus_, Sherlock. Somebody like that shouldn't be allowed on the streets.' John tilted his head to the side and answered Sherlock's tentative smile.

'All I'm saying is that there is no need to be afraid, love. I am strong. I will be all right and I'm definitely not willing to go yet, no bloody chance.'

John leaned back a bit to adjust his posture and softly moaned with pain, betraying what he had just declared. Sitting up seemed to exhaust him and he slumped back onto the pillow with a barely stifled groan. Sherlock held on to his hands and squeezed them reassuringly.

'All the relevant statistics show that ample rest combined with rehabilitation is the most promising approach, John. Don't rush anything - You have all the time in the world to get better. And there's no need to worry, I'll manage just fine at home.'

John smiled faintly, how typical of Sherlock to revert to statistics and therefore to less dangerous areas than those blasted emotions, and how quaint of him to mention their home and his housekeeping abilities, or rather his lack thereof. 'Oh, I don't worry at all. I know you can manage … and there's always Mrs Hudson. I'm sure she'll be delighted to look after you for a while.'

Sherlock looked stricken when the implication of what John had just said hit him – How long would John be in hospital, how long would they be separated? He glanced at the wall above John's head and tried to divert this train of thought. John watched him, saw the emotions so clearly on his face before Sherlock tried to lock them quickly and safely away.

'Come here, you clot.' John said softly and shuffled a bit to the side, the movement clearly causing him more pain.

'No! - No, I don't want to hurt you … I can't …' Sherlock was torn between the need to be close to John and the fear of hurting him.

'It's all fine, love. I need you beside me. Come here!' He lifted the thin blanket, 'Besides, I can always call the nurse, and she can drug me some more. Maybe add a few mega pain killers to my drip.'

Sherlock arched an eyebrow, somehow he couldn't read John today, wasn't really sure whether he was serious or not. It bugged him that sometimes he couldn't tell, even after all those years. But the need to be near him was stronger than any irritation or insecurity.

He got up and shrugged out of his suit jacket before he bent down to untie his shoe laces. He carefully draped his jacket over the back of a chair, put the shoes underneath, and gingerly climbed onto the narrow hospital bed which had clearly not been designed to accommodate two grown men. Next to John he was unsure where to put his long arms and legs and John shuffled a bit sideways to make more room.

'I want you to put your head on my chest, Sherl,' John instructed him, 'I can hold you and my leg won't hurt that way.'

Sherlock gingerly lowered his head on John's chest and draped his arm loosely across John's belly. John responded by gathering him into his arms, letting out a low drawn-out sigh when they had finally settled down comfortably. Lying there, close, sheltered, they could almost forget the circumstances that had brought them here, could almost forget John's injuries, could ignore the scars which would add some more darkish dots to John's map of pain and traumata, could almost forget Sherlock's anguish, fear and irritation – Almost, but not quite.

'Harry was here all night. She only went home a few hours ago,' Sherlock said, trying to sound casual, his warm breath ghosting over John's forearm.

'Oh? Aye – I didn't know that …' John was surprised, 'Haven't seen her in a while … Ever since I …' His voice trailed off and he turned his head to the door as if it could tell him more. 'Who told her?'

'The doctors, I presume. She's your next of kin. Of course she would be told. Particularly as I am _not_ family as everybody was so very keen to point out to me yesterday.' Sherlock's voice had grown hard with the memory and he unconsciously gripped John tighter making him wince, 'Sorry, John …'

He ghosted his cool fingers over the soft skin underneath the plain white t-shirt John was wearing, trying to make amends for having caused more pain.

'You know, I am legally not entitled to decide anything on your behalf – We might live together, we might be life partners, but that's not enough for them. They …' he broke off, he knew he was about to rant, he knew he sounded petulant, and that all of this wasn't John's fault at all. He bit his lips and continued caressing John's warm skin, carefully avoiding sutures that ran from just underneath his right arm towards his chest. It wasn't a large wound, but undoubtedly painful.

'I felt so helpless, so put into my place yesterday,' he added, much calmer now, 'Useless really. They told me - very clearly I might add - that I was not your family and how in a case of an emergency they would turn to Harry and that she was the only one to decide for you. I didn't like that at all …'

'No, you wouldn't, would you.' John trailed his fingers from Sherlock's neck up into his hair and weaved them through his dark curls. Neither of them spoke for a while and John felt Sherlock gradually relax and give in to his ministrations. After some moments the soft caresses elicited the low humming sound deep down in Sherlock's chest that John loved so much. He was like a cat, Sherlock, as responsive to tenderness as one of those velvety creatures. John leaned back into the pillow and enjoyed the sensation of the soft, silky hair between his fingers.

He felt strained, though, uneasy somehow, and he couldn't relax, as snippets of what Sherlock had told him and the consequences of what he had said raced through his mind. Somersaulting they were, frolicking, all those images and details, sending shivers down his spine and into his heart, making his hair stand on end and his stomach lurch. John's lips curled into a tiny smile – _What _was happening?

But all of a sudden the hundreds of puzzle pieces of their here and now, of their past and of their future seemed to team up and to unite and he saw clearly what there was to do. The timing might be a bit awkward, and he might have hoped for a more appropriate setting, but John knew what he wanted and he knew that it was right.

'Well, there's really only one thing we can do about it …' He paused for effect.

'So? What would that be?'Came the rather drowsy reply after a few seconds.

'We have to make _you_ my next of kin.'

'What do you mean?'

'A bit slow on the uptake today, are you love?' Sherlock felt the reverberation of John's low chuckling like a pleasant imitation of an earthquake running through his body. But then it hit him. He sat up on the bed, 'You mean?'

'Yes – ' John smiled and grasped Sherlock's hand, 'Will you be my next of kin, Sherlock?'

Sherlock blinked and then closed his eyes to shut himself off. He couldn't understand, he felt swarmed, invaded, overwhelmed - It was too much, too much at once. John's accident, the operations, the fear, the panic, the anguish, the hate – all those sensations and emotions playing with him, taking him hostage, taking him over, laughing at him – And now _this_.

He extricated his hand from John's grip and got up from the bed. Insecurely he stood next to him for a moment, looking down on him, his face impassive, before he walked over to the window. John frowned, that certainly wasn't the reaction he had expected and all the energy he had felt before suddenly surged out of him, leaving him drained and very tired.

Of course, Sherlock wasn't quite like anybody in his reactions, never had been, and he certainly defied all the usual categories in most fields of life. John knew this and he granted him as much, but still, _still_ ... John knew very well that Sherlock would never do anything he didn't want to, wouldn't even give him answer if he didn't feel like it, but he told himself to be patient and so he waited, waited for him to react.

Sherlock stood by the window, staring out into the night, his silhouette clearly defined against the darkness outside. He stood very still, carefully avoiding meeting John's gaze, even in the reflection of the night-dark window. It was more than blatant that he needed this moment alone, needed it to reach a decision. He closed his eyes and placed both hands on the cold window pane.

When his body started slowly swaying it was as if the return of movement was an indicator that he had reached a decision. 'Yes,' he said softly after what seemed like a very long moment, 'Yes, of course … I want to be your next of kin.'

The words had been spoken to the window, softly, with an unsure quality to them as if to test their flavour first, but then he turned and faced John. A smile lit up his face, a wonderfully lopsided smile that was the essence of his being. It was open, it was full of trust and most of all it was a token of his love.

Sherlock walked back to John, sat down on the bed again and kissed him. His soft lips making contact with John's mouth in an almost tentative and chaste manner. He broke off and rested his forehead on John's cheek. John smiled, elated and relieved, and draped his hand around the nape of his neck, feeling the softness of the curls and the strength in his neck that he knew was there.

'I love you, Sherlock,' John whispered, but the only reaction Sherlock was capable of giving was a curt nod, so overwhelmed was he by the moment and what it would mean for them. He kissed John again, this time with more passion, and it contained all the emotions this crucial moment induced in him. And this second kiss told John all he needed to know and gave him all the answer he required.

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**A/N** And that's the end of _Summer_ - and _Autumn_ is lurking just around the corner ;-D

Thank you for your wonderful feedback! Please keep it up! JJ


	8. Autumn, September

**AUTUMN**

_**September**_

'You can't be serious!'

'It's a perfectly reasonable idea, John,' Sherlock sounded calm and very matter-of-fact. 'She is your twin sister. She is your blood relative and therefore our best chance of raising a child which will have genes from both of us.'

'How can you even assume that this is _bloody _going to work?' John was incredulous. He started pacing in front of Sherlock who followed his agitated movements with his pale eyes, but apart from that remained still like a marble statue. 'You don't even get along with Harry. _Jesus_, Sherlock – Every time we meet up with her you come up with some flimsy excuses to be able to leave as fast as you can.' John came to a halt in front of Sherlock. Only mildly surprised John took in his calmness and getting more irritated he pointed an accusing finger in his direction to underline his next sentence, '_You_ and Harry can barely talk to each other for more than a minute without clawing each other's eyes out!' Another thought crossed his mind and he snorted mirthlessly, 'And how on earth would this child be conceived? Naturally?'

'Don't be obtuse, John! Of course, not!' Sherlock looked genuinely appalled, 'I would not want to engage in sexual intercourse with your sister and I can guarantee you she is more than unwilling to explore that particular field with me either.' Sherlock studied John's face and read unease and disbelief there. 'You're a doctor, John. I hardly have to tell you that there are other means.'

'IVF,' John mumbled and wiped his hands over his face as if to clear his mind of unwanted images.

'Exactly – In vitro fertilization. You might realise that the method of choice is most likely not our biggest obstacle,' Sherlock grasped John's hand. It was icy as if the shock had wrenched all warmth from his fingers.

'Harry - ' John nodded, 'Have you talked to her yet?'

'No … I thought I'd better leave that to you. You'd know how to convince her, she's your sister after all, and I'm not exactly known for entertaining successful sibling relations.'

John snorted, 'Oh aye – Right.' He turned slightly away from Sherlock, but didn't extricate his fingers from his grip. 'Well, we might have grown closer again in the last years…' he spoke softly, as if to himself, but then he hesitated as it was still hard for him to refer to their immediate past. John turned back to his husband, 'Sherlock, this is _insane_! I can't believe we are even talking about it! Harry is in a happy relationship, she and Susan might want to have children of their own. What we'd be asking of her - of them - is enormous. An enormous strain for body and mind.' John stepped closer to Sherlock who seemed a haven of calm in this buzzing atmosphere, it started to rile John that he seemed so impassive. 'To part with a child that you have carried nine months … let alone all the necessary medical procedures … and … it's time-consuming, it can be painful … Don't forget she's not that young anymore, we're both not young anymore.'

'True,' Sherlock conceded, 'Although I don't see a problem in that, to be honest. We can make sure that everything is in perfect order with the foetus before it's implanted. The method is quite safe, John. You're a doctor, you know that.'

John was baffled, 'You make it sound like placing an ordinary order in an ordinary shop and if the goods are damaged we will send them back.'

Sherlock bit his lips, but didn't reply. It was evident that he looked at the whole matter more from a scientist's point of view than a prospective father's.

John tried again, 'I honestly don't see how we can ask this of her, it's such a strain, such responsibility … and don't forget that it would bind us together forever. You would have to stay, whatever happens, you couldn't just leave on a whim,' Sherlock noticed the undertone and what it implied and had the grace to look abashed. 'This would be for life, Sherlock. You, me, Harry and the child.'

'I know perfectly well, love.' Sherlock leaned down to John, his voice low and insistent, 'But we already _are_ bound together forever. You are my husband and Harry is your twin sister. These are incredibly strong bonds. That's exactly why I thought she would be the obvious choice.'

John sighed, Sherlock was a tough combatant. Once a thought had found a place in his head he would not relent until a solution to his liking had been found. But John wasn't convinced, wasn't convinced at all.

x

Ten months had passed since Sherlock had come back home on a bleak and cold December afternoon. He had stood like a ghost in front of 221B, returning from hunting down Moriarty's men and from cutting each and every single strand of his spider's web. The spider at the centre of the web taken out of the game, Sherlock's aim had been to eliminate his remaining minions and to bring them to justice.

His time away had been truly horrendous, made worse by the fact that there had been no way around deceiving John, made ten times worse by the fact that he had been reduced to imagining what pain John had to go through – no, by the fact that he had _known_ exactly what John had to go through because Mycroft had kept him informed. He had known of John's nightmares, his desperation, what a close call it had been to prevent him from giving up - everything.

Coming back to his old life had been a difficult and hurting business, both for John and for Sherlock. They couldn't just pretend that nothing had happened because John had lost his trust in him and it had taken a lot of time and relentless and hurting fighting before they had been able pick up the pieces and to come back to their old familiarity, their easy and loving ways.

Two months had passed since they had celebrated their civil partnership ceremony on a sunny and lovely July morning. A quiet, but very happy affair with only some close friends and family - Mycroft, Mummy Holmes, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade of course, Molly, Harry and Susan. Getting married had been something they had planned for right after John's accident, but it had been delayed as John's recovery had taken longer than they had expected and John hadn't wanted_ to limp down the aisle, thank you very much_ - And then … then Moriarty had started another of his devious schemes, had set out to destroy Sherlock and John inch by inch, this time aiming for finality. Attacking John directly had been the first step, destroying Sherlock's reputation and therefore his life the second. The most devilish thing about Moriarty's machinations had been that it had left Sherlock with no choice, no choice at all if he wanted to save John and his friends.

Initially there had been no talk of marriage after Sherlock's return as it hadn't been evident they would find a way back to each other at all. Both had felt as if a chill had seeped through their flesh right into the marrow of their bones and to overcome this coldness had been more demanding than they would ever have thought possible. They had to fight hard for each and every tiny step towards each other. John had been uncharacteristically hard and cutting and Sherlock had shut himself off after he had stoically taken John's rightful anger and hurt for as long he could. They had gone through a very rough patch, but when they had emerged out of this darkness they had been the stronger for it.

And now they were Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson-Holmes, an entity, two halves forming a whole, closely knit together by law and their love for each other.

And lurking in the recesses of their minds - John's as well as Sherlock's - had been another incentive for getting married. During their endless discussions they had discovered, much to their awe and amazement, that what they really wanted was a child, a family, not only the two of them, but somebody else to take care of. And that's where Harry had come into play.

x

'The obvious choice, right?' John smiled a slightly tired and beaten smile. Knowing his husband so well he clearly saw why Sherlock would think along those lines, but he could for the life of him not ignore the avalanche of problems hiding behind this _obvious choice_.

'Tell me - If the pregnancy will work out would you want to monitor her, Sherlock? Would you want to check on her and our…' a tiny smile flickered across his face, 'our baby in your truly Sherlockian way?'

'What is that supposed to mean, John?' Sherlock looked perplexed.

'I'm talking of spreadsheets, diet recommendations, weight control, regular blood tests, non smoking-areas only, the right clothes, the right food, the right drinks, organic, whole grain, regional, you know … the lot?'

'Of course!'

'Thought so,' John sighed. 'Okay - Right. We might have to talk about this approach, love. Because Harry is definitely not going to put up with any of that. If she agrees to this madness at all, that is!'

'So you _are_ going to talk to her?' Sherlock, observant as always, had naturally picked up the one essential morsel of information in John's statement. His face was serious, but he couldn't hide a glimmer of hope in his eyes and John's heart went out to him.

'Yes - Yes I will, love. It's hard to admit, but I think you might be right and she could indeed be our obvious choice.' He cupped Sherlock's face and kissed him gently, 'Just imagine that, Sherl. A child - _Our_ child! What a horrifying, uplifting, mind-blowing thought!' John buried his lips in Sherlock's hair and wrapped his arms around his narrow waist, 'Let's hope it will have your brilliance … and your eyes and maybe your cheekbones and this frankly obscene riot of curls.'

'That's hardly relevant,' Sherlock drily commented and John's chuckle was a pleasant tingling sensation against his neck. He exhaled, basking in the sensation of holding John, and wrapped his arms tighter around his compact frame, 'Well, maybe a bit relevant. But there's hope it will have my intellect paired with less social awkwardness, it would make life definitely a lot easier for him … or _her_,' Sherlock added almost as an afterthought. He placed his chin on John's head, gently rubbing it over the soft sandy hair, 'All that hardly matters as there's only one thing I really wish for.'

'Oh? What's that?'

'I hope it will have your heart, John.'

oOo

'You can't be serious,' Harry said and stared at John. She had agreed to see her brother in her lunch break and they had met in a little tearoom near Maryleborne Road where Harry worked as a PA for a successful antiques dealer.

'That's exactly what I said when Sherlock presented me with this idea for the first time,' John said, knowing full well that mentioning it had originally been Sherlock's idea might not be the most promising approach with Harry.

'Was it? I could have guessed,' Harry stirred her tea, clanking the spoon irritably against the sides of her cup. 'It's fucking unbelievable! Who does he think he is? The world's greatest detective? Or the world's most famous expert of reproduction medicine? A higher human being? God?'

'He is my husband,' John simply answered and shrugged.

Harry glanced at him. 'Right - That he is, undoubtedly.'

Despite her irritation Harry couldn't suppress a small smile when she thought back to that very touching ceremony more than two months ago when John and Sherlock had tied the knot. She had glimpsed Sherlock's humanity and warmth for the very first time then, had seen the deep and honest love he felt for her brother.

She might still not like him overly much, might bitterly resent that he had left her brother behind, inflicting so much pain on John, reducing him thus to a shadow of his former self. He might still drive her up the walls with his cold and cutting manner, his demeanour might still reduce her to silence – Yes, all this was true, but deep down in her sisterly heart she knew that she admired the sheer obstinacy of Sherlock's hunting down his enemy and she grudgingly had to admit that protecting John had been his motivation behind all and nothing else. Besides, it was indisputable that he did her brother a world of good. And most importantly it was blatantly obvious to anyone who cared to look that John loved him more than anything.

She studied John's face for a moment, a face that was the mirror image of her own, a more pronounced male version of her softer features. 'What do _you_ think, Johnny? I assume you have talked about it, I take it you are one hundred percent behind Sherlock?'

'You know me, Harry. Even Sherlock couldn't sweet-talk me into such an adventure if I didn't want to. No! No – I think he's right, I think _you_ are the right person for us.' John leaned towards his sister and his voice became more insistent, 'All I ask of you is not to discard it right away. I want you to know that we want a child - we are ready for a child, we wish to be a family, and we want you to be a part of it. But we are aware that you have every right to say no. I won't lie to you, it will be a hard time, what with all the tests, the pills you'd have to take, the monitoring, the pregnancy, the birth.'

Harry listened, she somehow found it hard to resist the enthusiasm in John's face and so she cast her eyes down on the table. She noticed that she was twiddling the teaspoon incessantly between her thumb and index finger and made an effort to put it back into the saucer. She leaned back into her chair to put some distance between herself and her brother and to be able to face John again.

Hundreds of thought stormed through her mind, her heart, leaving her befuddled and confused. Bear a child? For Sherlock and John? For her brother and his puzzling madman of a husband? Going through pregnancy and all this might include knowing full well that she'd never be a real mother to this child? Would she be able to go through such an emotional rollercoaster? Would she? And more importantly, did she want to? She closed her eyes for a moment to gather her thoughts.

'I can't give you an answer right now. Let me think about it, Johnny. And I have to discuss it with Susan, this isn't something I can decide alone,' she finally said.

'Thank you, Harry. Thank you so much. That's far more than I could have hoped for.'

John kissed the palm of his sister's hand and then pecked her tenderly on the cheek. They looked at each other and smiled. Seeing the hope in John's open face Harry felt a tiny fluttering in her heart which made her believe that, despite all the insecurities and what-if questions, this could indeed be a possibility and that it might bring all of them closer together than they had ever been before.

* * *

**A/N**

Again there is a gap between _Summer_ and _Autumn_ and I'm sorry to disappoint anybody who had been waiting for a wedding (and a wedding night) … Maybe I will fill this gap in a one-shot later … if anybody should be remotely interested, that is …

Obviously, for the sake of my story Harry has no drinking problem, otherwise she would not be a good choice as a surrogate mother for Sherlock and John.

I haven't decided yet whether their child will be a boy or a girl – I know that fanon has it that their child is a boy called Hamish Watson Holmes, but I don't know if I want to go with that … Tell me what you think?

Thank you so much! JJ


	9. Autumn, October

**AUTUMN**

_October_

'Oh, she is gorgeous,' John whispered, touching his daughter's tiny fingers with infinite delicacy. She stretched her index and middle finger in a reflex to John's gentle touch. 'Look at her, love. Just look … she's perfect.'

'Yes,' Sherlock softly conceded, but his fingers didn't immediately fly up to touch her little round face or to feel the texture of her fine, downy hair, instead he kept his distance.

So far he had only dared to watch, had not yet touched his little baby daughter. He needed to study her first, visual impact always being the first and most important stimulus for him. Sherlock adjusted his stance, shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and peered at her intently.

She had dark, immensely fine hair, straight, no sign of curls as yet. Infinitesimal small blue veins were visible on her closed eyeslids as she was sleeping soundly in John's arms. In a rare moment of wakefulness he had noticed that her eyes were of a dark blue, like John's. But of course it was well-known that all babies had blue eyes at the beginning of their lives and that it gradually changed to the final colour within the first year of infancy. So Sherlock couldn't file this information away as a definite yet.

From the chart the nurses had filled in right after her first bath, he had gathered that her height was just about normal, but her weight was slightly below average. Answering his anxious enquiry the doctor had assured him that this was nothing to worry about as she would catch up quickly in the days and weeks to come.

The tone of her skin was milky white with a slight rosy tint to her cheeks, an appealing contrast to her dark hair. Sherlock leaned down even closer to her and squinted, there was a tiny birthmark on her neck, shaped like a tiny apple - _interesting_. He let his eyes roam over her little arms, hands and fingers, filing away shape, texture and range of motion. The fingers of her right hand were wrapped around John's index finger, gripping tightly. Sherlock glanced up at John and saw the blissful smile on his face, how he was totally absorbed in their child and oblivious to everything going on around him.

Their daughter was two hours old. She had been born in the morning hours of this chilly, but promisingly sunny October day.

She hadn't been due for another ten days, but given that the last examination had shown a slightly abnormal heart rate, matters had progressed fairly quickly as the doctors had decided on an emergency Caesarean delivery to ensure maximum surveillance. Sherlock had been all for it - always a believer in the controllability of science - John of course realised and accepted the medical necessity and Harry had been quick to agree. Sherlock knew that the excruciating pains of labour and all the unpleasantness of giving birth had been Harry's biggest nightmares. No matter how often the three of them had discussed procedures and options, Harry had always voiced her fears and worries about a natural birth.

Sherlock also acknowledged that it might be easier for Harry to part with her child after this quick and comparatively painless operation rather than having endured endless hours of labour. As part of his preparation for the birth he had read all the relevant articles on bonding and on the correlation of a natural birth and a normal mother-child-relation, and he knew that a Caesarean had been the best solution for all kind of questions and worries.

A low gurgling sound alerted his senses to his husband and his daughter again, 'What's the matter with her now, John?' he asked, alarm in his voice.

'Nothing serious, love. She's just ... hungry ... I guess. It's probably time to feed her. Hold her for a moment, will you? I need to get the nurse.'

John didn't wait for an answer, but carefully transferred the tiny human being from his to his husband's arms. Sherlock's body stiffened in response and his eyes widened in something akin to shock. John was determined to ignore Sherlock's evident unease and turned on his heels to find the nurse. He made sure to close the door to the hospital room with care so as not to disturb Harry.

He needn't have worried on that account as his sister had been awake for a good while and had been following the little scene attentively from her hospital bed next to the window. It proved incredibly hard for her to find sleep and much-needed rest although she was exhausted by the last weeks of her pregnancy, the operation and not the least by the feelings that overwhelmed her. _Hormones_, as Sherlock had patiently explained to her on one of his weekly visits. They would fairly swarm her after the birth, and it was perfectly normal, she knew that. But still, seeing her brother and Sherlock with her, no _their_ daughter was fairly overwhelming her.

Harry watched Sherlock, the biological father of her child, and noticed his apparent awkwardness while holding his daughter for the very first time, saw the tension in his body in the stiffness of his lean back. It was evident from his posture that he didn't feel at ease, couldn't relax. She felt tears welling up in her eyes and just let them roll down her cheeks, made no attempt to hide them either. Her heart grew heavy when she thought about having to give away her baby girl. Sherlock and John had assured her that she would always play an important part in their family, would always remain her mother, and she believed them, there really was no reason not to, but the thought that this might have been her only chance of a child made her very sad. She wished with all her heart that Susan was here, but she had to go to a conference and couldn't be back before the weekend.

Harry wiped over her eyes and watched Sherlock turning slightly to the side, his body gently swaying, and now she could see father and daughter in profile. She was careful not to alert him to the fact that she was awake. It was obvious to her, who had gotten to know him very well and had surprisingly grown rather fond of him in the past two years, that Sherlock needed this moment alone with his daughter.

He couldn't stop watching her intently, studying her in proximity, and all the while awe, amazement and puzzlement were battling for dominance on his features. Unconsciously he cradled her closer to his chest, feeling the incredible warmth that emanated from her little body. She was like a tiny hothouse. Ever so slowly he bowed his head, buried his nose in the downy dark hair on his daughter's perfectly shaped head and sniffed. Closing his eyes he fairly sucked in the scent that clung to her soft hair and the hot skin of her scalp. It was a scent he had never smelled before, something between pure and freshly laundered linen, vanilla beans and a cloudless and careless day.

And without any conscious effort on his side, a whole new wing, dedicated to his daughter, was being mapped out in his mind palace. He closed his eyes and entered this latest addition to his palace, slowly and leisurely strolling through this newly-built wing along a friendly, brightly-lit corridor, past countless white wooden doors with stars or letters or numbers painted on them. He was walking as if on clouds, his body weightless, freed from a burden, and ease and calm permeating every tiny morsel of his being.

He came to a halt in front of one of the white wooden doors, adorned with intricate ornaments, and opened it without hesitation. He stepped into the room which was flooded by warm, yellow light and placed this precious scent in a tiny wooden box on a lovely small table. The scent of his newborn daughter Claire Watson–Holmes.

A soft noise made him open his eyes and he found her looking at him. John's dark blue eyes, Sherlock thought and smiled, his thoughts leaving Claire's palace and his daughter's eyes anchoring him safely to the here and now. He leaned down to her again and trailed his nose over her forehead and her tiny nose, lingering a moment on her warm cheeks to inhale the scent that was slightly different there. He kissed her sleep-warm skin and was rewarded with a friendly gurgling sound, closely followed by soft crying, which crunched her pretty little face into creases and elicited a distressed 'Oh!' from her father.

'She's hungry, Sherlock,' Harry said softly, 'Not to worry.'

Sherlock turned around to her, 'Harry - You're awake? You should really rest some more … the baby … Claire, I mean … is safe with me.'

'I know that she is. And I can see that she likes being in your arms.'

'You think so?' Sherlock asked, a proud little smile playing around his lips.

'Yes, love' John said from the door and smiled at the sight in front of him. Claire snuggled up safely in Sherlock's arms, and Sherlock cradling her to his chest like the little wonder she was, 'Very much so.'

oOo

It was always soft weeping first which would last a few seconds and jerk John from a dreamless sleep into a state of near-wakefulness. Soon it would develop into full-fledged bawling, indicating hunger and desperation and the need to be taken out of the cot next to their bed and to be seen to immediately.

John opened his eyes and sighed. Only the sparse light from the street lamps filtering through the curtains illuminated the room and he tried to adjust his eyes to the near darkness. His hand lazily snaked to the other side of the bed, hoping for soft, warm skin, but only finding long-cooled sheets and no Sherlock. John frowned - _Where had he gone to?_ – but Claire's insistent crying tolerated no more idling and he slowly peeled the duvet back from his sleep-deprived form to get up for the third time this night.

'There, sweetheart – _shush_, Daddy's here,' he whispered soothingly and picked up Claire from her cot, her little body hot and wiggling. Carefully, but expertly he placed her body against his chest and her head against his shoulder and padded tiredly into the kitchen to prepare her milk. Her crying had developed into a veritable gale now, and not for the first time John was astonished how loud and penetrating their little one could voice her needs.

He gently placed her on a padded blanket he had installed on the top of the kitchen table to have his hands free. 'Impatient, you are, sweetie – like your father, just like your father,' John muttered while he went through the well-practiced motions of preparing Claire's milk. Everything ready he checked the temperature on his wrist and gently gathered her in his arms again. John didn't bother to switch on another lamp and padded into the dimness of the living room to his favourite chair.

He found Sherlock sitting opposite, knees drawn up to his chest and his hands covering his ears to shut out Claire's constant wailing. He looked tired, bewildered and furious. John frowned at the sight of him, but did otherwise not acknowledge his presence in the living room or his childish posture.

Instead he sat down with a soft grunt and settled Claire in his arms. As John had known she stopped crying the second she sensed the imminent satisfaction of her basic needs and was soon suckling the warm milk, her eyes closed contently. Once the bottle was empty, she blissfully gurgled and relaxed. John cradled her against his chest, her head on his shoulder. Massaging her warm back, he swayed a bit to soothe her back into sleep and kissed her little wiggling fingers.

Only when his daughter slept and her body lay utterly relaxed against his shoulder, did he look up at Sherlock who sat in exact the same posture as before, eyes cast down. 'What's wrong with you, Sherlock?' John asked in a low voice, but the softness could not hide his irritation.

Sherlock looked at him then and John saw the bewilderment and the frustration in his eyes. 'I can't take her crying anymore, I just … cannot stand this wailing … this sound …' He started rocking jerkily to and fro, his arms hugging his knees to his body, his whole body a manifestation of a nervousness and unrest permeating his entire being, tainting his days, poisoning his nights. '_I – just - can't - take - it_,' he hissed between gritted teeth, every carefully enunciated word a stab to John's heart.

John bit his lips and wiped his hand over his mouth in a gesture of avoidance. He did not trust himself to give an answer just yet, and so he remained silent and only stared at the wall opposite, carefully avoiding Sherlock's gaze. Hollowness joined the fury he felt and seeped into his heart, and a slight nauseous feeling formed in the pit of his stomach. For days John had sensed that something was coming, that something was indeed amiss, that a storm was gathering - and this was it.

'What do you mean – you can't take _it_?' John finally asked, tilting his head to the side, jutting his chin out in a gesture of defiance, afraid of the answer.

'I can't _concentrate_, I can't _think _– I can't finish a thought without being interrupted by …' Sherlock hesitated, he knew things were coming to a heed and if he spoke now those thoughts would be out in the open, hanging between them, never to be taken back, and he wasn't callous enough not to fear the consequences. 'It's just that I can't seem to find a minute for myself … It's always _Claire here_ and _Claire there_ and you never even ask me what I'm doing, you're never there for _me_ …'

Sherlock glanced away, afraid that he had said too much and the wrong things at that. John, opposite him, cleared his throat and Sherlock closed his eyes to brace himself.

'You know, Sherlock,' John spoke softly, but there was steel to his voice, 'That is the way of the world when you have a child. Claire is a three weeks old, helpless, tiny human being. A baby – our baby – our daughter.' John's voice grew louder, 'You know quite well that she needs me twenty-four hours a day. _You_ are a grown man, for God's sakes!' He wiped a tired hand over his eyes and tried to collect his thoughts which raced through his tired brain, 'I barely manage three hours of sleep in a row, I bathe her, change her, dress her, feed her and I honestly don't have the bloody energy left to pamper your ego. I'm exhausted, Sherlock and I am not willing to put up with your childish and frankly egotistical whining.'

Sherlock's head shot up and he fixed his pale eyes on John's features. As expected he could read exhaustion and anger in them, but what frightened him most was that there was also indifference. He opened his mouth to reply, but John cut him short, 'I think it better you slept upstairs in the spare room since we disturb you so much.'

He got up, Claire in his arms, the two of them very much forming a unit, without giving Sherlock the chance to react. Sherlock's hand shot out and grabbed John's wrist. John stopped in his tracks and looked at his husband. He saw the fear and the hurt in his eyes, but his own disappointment was overshadowing all possible understanding. He shook his head and freed his wrist from Sherlock's grip.

Without glancing back he left the living room which seemed suddenly very cold and hostile. He hurried back to the bedroom with Claire, who slept safely and soundly in his arms, and gently put her down on the middle of their bed. John slipped under the duvet next to her, and once settled, enveloped her tiny hand in his own, 'Sleep well, sweetheart, Daddy's here,' he whispered, 'Nothing to worry … nothing at all.'

Exhausted as he was he fell asleep almost instantly and neither heard Sherlock opening the door to their bedroom a little while later nor did he feel his presence. He never saw the gentle and shy caress for Claire, didn't feel the ghost of a kiss to his brow. And the soft padding of naked feet up the stairs to the spare room never even pierced the bubble of his consciousness.

* * *

**A/N** So they have a baby girl! I opted for a daughter because I have one myself and I therefore know what I'm talking about … ;-D

I can also relate very well to John's exhaustion and the resulting tension between Sherlock and John as a couple … Well, let's hope for the best …

Thank you so much for your feedback! Please keep it up! JJ


	10. Autumn, November

**AUTUMN**

_November_

John was caught in a veritable whirlwind of emotions since Claire had become the centre of their family. Unbelievable exhaustion battled with elation, fiery enthusiasm with fright. The past weeks had taught him that he loved his daughter like he had never loved anyone before, but what a curious kind of love that was! A different kind of love, very different to the one he felt for his husband, who was his world and his complementing half. John's love for Claire was unconditioned and pure, untainted, an unbreakable bond, only existent between a parent and a child.

But by God he was exhausted, worn out by the constant attending to Claire, by the broken nights and by the worries. And there was something else, something that he was loath to admit, but which was undoubtedly real and wore him down enormously. It was hard to be honest, but it wasn't going well between him and Sherlock, and the nagging and ugly feeling of being left in the lurch by his husband overshadowed their every interaction. Of course John knew that Sherlock loved his daughter with all his heart, but there was a constant hesitation, a shyness, even a kind of uncharacteristic fear which so far he hadn't been able to overcome.

John sensed him withdrawing back into himself more and more, staying apart, keeping to himself and sadly remaining outside the close unit that were John and Claire. An invisible barrier was growing between them and there was no bloody way they could just plough on like that. He had no energy left to worry constantly about their relationship as well, he needed Sherlock to be his anchor and not a piece of flotsam slowly drifting away.

Something definitely had to change.

oOo

The dim light of the early November afternoon saw Sherlock sitting in his leather chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin, bare feet elegantly crossed at the ankles. He was oblivious of the physical world around him, of the crackling fire in the fireplace, of the fading blueish light of this cold afternoon. His eyes were fixed on a point in his mind palace, rendering him unreachable, unattainable.

As usual when he was in that state he was lost for the here and now and didn't notice John slip out of the flat to nip down to the shops to get some groceries. He had slightly nodded when John had addressed him and told him that Claire was sleeping safely in her cot, the bedroom door ajar, and that he should be back from the shops in no time, definitely before she'd be awake and demanding to be fed - _No need to worry, everything will be just fine, love_.

Yes, he had indeed heard, the information had reached him, but it hadn't registered, and when Claire began to cry, tentatively and softly first, his senses didn't jolt back to awareness immediately. Her distress was not yet powerful enough to penetrate his consciousness. Sherlock was entirely preoccupied, his hands flying in front of his face, sliding invisible panels, opening imaginary boxes, filing scents and sensations, textures away in their respective compartments. But the crying persisted, grew louder and finally had gathered enough strength to lap against the outer walls of his mind palace. He felt an impatient tug of real life and blinked, confused, taking a second or two to come back to reality.

'John?' he called out, his voice croaky from the prolonged silence, but only the stillness of their flat devoid of John and the heart-breaking whimpering of his daughter answered back. 'John?' he called again and got up from his chair, smoothing down the lapels of his jacket and glancing around, confused that John wasn't where he was supposed to be. Sherlock felt his pulse elevate and nervousness settle like a mist over him when he made out the primal need behind that fretful crying. He took a few steps towards their bedroom where Claire was lying in her cot, but stopped in his tracks, hesitation controlling his movements. The realisation that he had no inkling what there was to do hit him full force.

He inhaled sharply and his hand flew to his face, nervously fluttering. Absentmindedly he wiped over his mouth in an attempt to control the tension he felt rising inside him. 'John?' he called again, the slight trembling in his voice a testimonial of his insecurity as he had long realised that he was alone and had to cope with this situation on his own.

He buried his head in his hands and forced himself to breathe calmly. He cursed under his breath when this proved ineffective and the more and more insistent crying of his little one tugged impatiently at his heart, invisible strings pulling him to her, despite his fear to do something wrong, to hurt her, to be lost. 'Coming, Claire – I'm coming,' he said, but it sounded lame even to his own ears. Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, tried to detach, tried to pull himself together. When he opened them to reality again, he purposefully straightened his back and went to see Claire.

x

Sherlock tilted his head to the side and knitted his brows in confusion. Approaching Claire's cot he had used the exact words he had heard John mumbling or muttering or cooing countless times. Exactly the same words, down to the last syllable –

_There sweetheart – shush, Daddy is here_ –

but the effect had been nonexistent. Claire had not stopped wailing, had not even acknowledged his presence, if anything the volume had gone up a notch. The situation frightened and intrigued Sherlock at equal measures. Those sweet words had always worked a treat nine times out of ten when John had uttered them. And the one time they were less effective they at least resulted in a decreasing of volume.

_It's not the actual words then that do the magic … It must be something else … But what?_

Sherlock crossed his arms in front of his chest and put a finger to his lips as he stood over his daughter's cot. Thinking helped him keep his nervousness at bay, being confronted with a problem and racking his brains for a solution tricked him into believing that he was not mortified in the face of this situation. Claire's crying had reached an intensity and a volume that was nerve-wracking to put it mildly and Sherlock knew he had to find a solution to this _problem_ quickly.

_Well, if it's not the words _… _What then? What? … Think! My goodness, it's a baby and not quantum physics, this is …_

'Oh!' he exclaimed, opening his arms wide, 'Oh! … That's it. Of course, it is! If it's not the words themselves then it must be the tone of voice!'

He leaned down to his daughter, not realizing that he was fairly looming over her, a dark shadow against the window and her howling grew louder drowning out her father's lowest and most tender tone of voice. 'Listen, Claire. I am going to explain to you the difference between a pathological liar and a compulsive swindler. It is one of the most fascinating differentiations to be found in criminology and you must see …' he whispered, but there was no reaction to be had. Instead Claire was putting all her efforts in making her need known, no matter how sweetly her father's voice danced across her features.

Sherlock frowned in frustration, the uneasiness creeping back into his mind unbidden, but he continued undeterred. He could be very stubborn and he wanted to prove that he was right, had indeed found the formula to soothe her. Unconsciously he shifted his body, not blocking the light any longer and after another few seconds the crying decreased audibly in volume and Claire opened her eyes a fraction wider to see who was talking to her incessantly. Alas, it was only a slight reprieve and she seemed to be gathering all her remaining strength to work her crying into a new and frightening crescendo.

'Claire!' Sherlock bit his lip and felt the wailing and her desperation seep through his skin into his bones and prick tiny little holes into his soul. 'Claire … dearest … what is the matter with you? … Hmm?'

Sherlock got down on his knees to be at eye level with her and ghosted a warm finger over her forehead, a feather-light touch only. He frowned, it amazed him how much comfort he took from this little contact and growing bolder he exerted a tiny bit more pressure, gently circling his finger in soothing motions over her hot and flushed skin. And without thinking he began to whisper, 'Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate.' He gently trailed his finger down her soft cheek, relishing the sensation of that silky skin against his fingertips. Her crying lessened and when she shakily inhaled a few times, it made her father's heart clench.

And eventually the soft, soft caresses calmed her down, stopped her crying, soothed her into silence. Claire turned her head and fixed dark, blue eyes on her father, surprising him with the intensity of her stare. Sherlock marvelled at her piercing eyes in the centre of an otherwise tired and exhausted little face and on impulse he got up from the floor and lifted her out of the cot. He slipped his arm underneath her body and cradled her safely against his chest. He didn't know why exactly, but as the combination of caresses and poetry seemed to do the magic he continued reciting Shakespeare to his tiny daughter, 'Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May … my Claire … And summer's lease hath all too short a date.'

Sherlock enjoyed her warm and exhausted little body against his chest and leaned down to whisper the remaining lines of this eternal sonnet against her cheeks. Holding her, contentment and calm was spreading through him, akin to what he only ever felt in John's presence. A smile curled the corners of his lips, and he kissed the crown of Claire's head, warm and sweet-smelling like a freshly baked pie.

Trying to piece together what there was to do now, he slowly walked to the kitchen, bracing himself for the task of feeding his daughter. What a pity that nobody was there to witness this little scene as it was quite a sight - the tall dark man, barefooted, but dressed impeccably in a dark suit, holding on to a little bundle, his daughter, as if she was the most valuable little thing in the world, and indeed she was.

x

John softly tread up the remaining two steps of the stairs to their flat, leaving the overflowing grocery bags on the landing. He had been gone exactly two hours and a half, plenty of time for Claire to wake up and demand her father's attention. Plenty of time for Claire to entice her father into looking after her. Plenty of time for Sherlock to prove himself.

In the last weeks Mrs Hudson had been a great help, taking Claire for a while ever so often so that John could get some sleep or read or do something for himself, and Harry had always been there for him as well. John had poured his heart out to his sister, moaning about his exhaustion and the lack of support. Being less involved and able to take a step back Harry had seen both sides of the medal, and had not hesitated to say so -

_'Don't you think it hurts Sherlock that it's Claire here and Claire there all the time? Can't you see that he feels neglected?' – _

_'How can you say that? If he can't see that Claire needs all my attention, there's nothing I can do. I know what a dent in his massive ego it must be that the world doesn't turn entirely around him anymore, but I bloody don't have the energy …' – _

_'John, don't! – Don't talk like that. Don't be bitter and don't shut him out. Don't make him the culprit! And if it hurts you so much, stop moaning and change something. Talk to him, do something about it! You can't expect him to guess what's bothering you, you know how he ticks. You know how much he relies on you for moral guidance. If you don't show him your love he'll withdraw completely. Don't let him, Johnny!' -_

John had taken his sister's words to heart and had tried to involve Sherlock more - but to no avail - and in the last days the thought that he quite possibly needed to be coerced into taking a more active part in caring for Claire had grown in John's mind. And today had been the perfect occasion - John had gone out, ostensibly only doing the shopping and left Sherlock and Claire alone.

Mrs Hudson had been downstairs, acting as a backup, all senses alert, ears fairly glued to the door of her flat, ready to offer assistance should the need arise. They had agreed beforehand that she would not interfere on her own account. She would only go up to their flat if Sherlock called for her, which he hadn't done, as Mrs Hudson excitedly had told John the second he had opened the door to 221B. John had not been sure if this was to be considered a good or a bad sign and had felt a slight apprehension when ascending the stairs.

The flat was eerily silent and when he peered into the kitchen he recoiled. Their usually reasonably clean kitchen was a mess. Various casseroles lay strewn across the kitchen table, Claire's padded blanket was carelessly flung over the back of a chair and spoons and baby formula scattered on the floor, the white powder even dusted lavishly over the counter. John made a few steps into the kitchen and cursed – _What the heck?_ – when he realized that the floor was sticky, milky puddles drying into more sticky mess in front of the oven and the fridge.

John felt slight panic rise in his chest and quickly checked the living room for any signs of his madman of a husband and his tiny, innocent baby daughter. There were nowhere to be found. John spun on his heels and fairly ran towards their bedroom. He quickly pushed open the door and stopped dead in his tracks.

The bedroom looked even worse for wear than the kitchen, what with nappies all over the floor, baby wipes, baby balm and dozens of Claire's t-shirts and rompers scattered everywhere and covering all available surfaces. John was astonished to see that Sherlock's jacket and shirt had joined the heap of Claire's clothes on the floor.

Claire's cot was empty. John stepped fully into room, his gaze travelling anxiously to their bed and the sight that greeted him there tugged at his heart and made him swallow thickly with emotions. Claire, only clad in a nappy, was sleeping on Sherlock's naked chest, her nose nuzzling his collarbone and her tiny arms wrapped around his neck. Sherlock must have covered them with their duvet, but it had slipped down and now revealed father and daughter united in the deep and blissful sleep of the thoroughly exhausted.

John's face split into a wide and healing smile, he felt content, warm and at home. He turned around and left the room, carefully closing the door so as not to disturb the two. Letting them have this moment seemed indeed important.

He returned to the hall and grabbed the shopping bags. Sighing he set out to arrange the groceries and to restore something resembling order to the kitchen. But when all the perishable food was tucked away in the fridge, he grew restless, and suddenly felt such a surge of longing that he decided to let the kitchen be. John kicked off his shoes and shrugged out his jumper before he quietly padded along the hall in his stockinged feet to join Sherlock and Claire in the bedroom. Careful not to wake them he climbed onto the bed and snuggled up to his husband and daughter.

'Where have you been?' Sherlock murmured drowsily, without opening his eyes and buried his lips in John's hair.

'Down the shops … took a bit longer than I thought. How did it go?'

'Oh …' Sherlock cleared his throat, the sound, a pleasant little explosion of noise in Sherlock's chest, made John smile and elicited a content little sigh from Claire. 'Alright, I guess. I found out that our daughter likes poetry.'

'Does she? That's … good, I guess …' John was astonished by the turn of the conversation, this certainly was not what he had expected. 'I take it that you managed fine … The two of you … You and Claire.'

'Why shouldn't we?' Sherlock asked back.

'No reason why you shouldn't. No reason at all, love,' John conceded and somehow it felt they had reached a silent agreement that this was all to be said on this topic. John snuggled closer so that his lips almost touched Claire's cheek and her breath ghosted over his face. Sherlock embraced the two of them and with one hand he grabbed the duvet to wrap it snug around them.

What a warm and cosy feeling that was. Calmness, peacefulness and contentment were mingling into a unique memento and they both felt that this was their first real moment as a family.

'It was never you _or_ Claire, love.' John softly whispered against Sherlock's naked chest, answering an unspoken question. A question that had been floating between them since the day of Claire's birth. 'It was always you and Claire and me - Family.'

'I know,' Sherlock murmured, his low baritone reverberating in his chest, pleasantly tickling John, 'I guess I have always known, but I found it hard to act on it …'

'And now you can?'

'I think so …' Sherlock said, a sliver of hesitation still lingering.

'You … _think_?' John couldn't let it be, he needed to know. Sherlock didn't answer immediately and John felt insecurity again, this bloody and unwanted companion of the last weeks.

'No - I _know_!' Sherlock eventually said, and John could fairly hear the smile in those words, a lovely smile that would curl the corner of his soft lips in the most endearing way. What made him answer this smile with all his heart was not only what Sherlock had said, but that he had uttered those words with his usual confidence and the cool and casual smugness that John had missed and that he loved so much.

* * *

**A/N** This was _autumn_ and we're moving on to _winter_ ... and Christmas for Sherlock, John and Claire ...

Thank you **powerOgirl** for giving me the idea of gently nudging Sherlock towards 'full-fledged fatherhood' by proving his 'father qualities' …

Thank you all so much for your continuing support, for all the reviews and favs and alerts! This means so much to me!

JJ


	11. Winter, December PART I

**WINTER**

_December  
_

_Part I - Christmas Eve  
_

'John …' Sherlock all but purred into John's ear, 'Put that _blasted_ thing away.' Impatiently he tugged at the half-wrapped parcel in John's fingers until John carelessly let it fall to the floor, suddenly oblivious of the shiny red paper and the golden bow. 'I really don't want to waste _any_ time with wrapping presents when we're alone for once. No sharpening of crayons, no folding of straw stars, no endless revision of _Twelve Days of Christmas_.' With each mentioning of parental everyday duties he had moved closer, excitingly invading John's personal space, crowding him in, fairly pinning him to the living room door.

'We are _entirely_ on our own – Claire is out, Mrs Hudson is at her sister's and we should not hesitate to seize this rare opportunity.' Sherlock's hands had sneaked down and his slender fingers circled John's wrists, seizing them purposefully, thus making the illusion of captivity complete. John let his head fall back against the wooden door and gulped thickly. The delightful movement of John's Adam's apple didn't go unnoticed and Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, a smug smile curling the corners of his lips.

'I don't know, it's past two already and Claire will be back soon…' John muttered, not much resistance left, but stubbornly trying to stand his ground.

'No, she won't.' Sherlock whispered close to John's ear again, pushing his knee between his legs, nudging them apart none too gently. John sucked in air sharply and closed his eyes. 'Harry and Susan went into town with her to see the Christmas lights and to do some last minute shopping. We have at least two glorious hours for ourselves.' Sherlock leaned down and like a cat let his tongue flicker quickly over John's Adam's apple.

'_Jesus_, Sherl … this is so … enticing …' John arched his back, granting him more access. Sherlock pressed his body against John's, his hips grinding against him annoyingly slow, his fingers still gripping his wrists hard.

'Don't stop … _God_, how I missed this,' John panted and buried his mouth in Sherlock's hair. It smelled faintly of smoke and his expensive shampoo and of the time they had spent apart in the last few days. He was unable to raise his hands or to even move on his own accord, he could only follow Sherlock's lead and _for God's sakes_ it felt divine, being ruled by him.

'This is exactly what I dreamt of these last days …' Sherlock gasped between claiming kisses to John's neck, his earlobe, his Adam's apple, 'Having you entirely for myself. I want to touch you, John. I want to make you squirm underneath me, I want to hear you moan my name … I want…' he lowered his voice some more, 'A damn good afternoon shag.'

'_Bloody hell,_ love. Living with me really rubbed off on you. Better watch your language!' John pressed out between gritted teeth, followed by a low drawn-out moan when Sherlock sneaked his tongue into his ear.

'As you please …' Sherlock whispered and pressed John against the door using all his weight to keep him there, bringing them flush against each other, their arousals touching. Sherlock lifted his head and they locked eyes. John could feel all the remaining blood rushing down to his groin when he saw the desire and dark lust in those ice blue ponds. Sherlock leaned down and brought his lips close, so enticingly _bloody_ close to John's mouth that they were breathing each other, but he was merely taunting him, not kissing, offering only the slightest ghost of a touch and hissed, 'Now stop talking!'

x

'Daddy, Dad … I'm back. Look what Harry got me!' Claire bounced up the stairs to their flat, her pretty face glowing from the cold outside, her features a study of Christmassy anticipation, joy and excitement written all over them. She was clutching a book in her mittened hands.

'Claire! You're back already, sweetheart! Tell me how _impressive_ were the Christmas lights?' John gathered his five-year-old daughter in his arms and whirled her through the air making her giggle. He was in his bathrobe as he had taken a shower after they had spent lazy afternoon hours in their bedroom. Sherlock was still in bed, he had been exhausted and had fallen asleep after their love making. John hadn't had the heart to wake him.

He kissed his daughter on the tip of her ice cold nose, 'You're an icicle, sweetie. Let's get you warm and snug!'

He quickly put her down and helped her out of her winter coat, the boots, the mittens, the scarf and the woollen hat, 'Well, Harry wrapped you up nicely. All those layers!'

'She'd never let me go without a hat, but I'm _never_ cold, Daddy! She always treats me like a baby! _You will not leave the house without a hat, Claire. It's freezing!_' Claire's face was disfigured by a sneer when she related Harry's words thus revealing her biggest fears: being treated like a _little one_ when she was in fact a schoolgirl already. John smirked, she didn't like to be patronized, never liked to be told what to do.

Suddenly she remembered the book Harry had bought her. She picked it up from the floor, 'Look - It's an etymological dictionary for children, Daddy. Isn't that cool? Like the ones Dad has. Now I don't have to ask him all the time!' She beamed at him and John couldn't help himself, he had to point it out, 'Sweetheart, you can't read yet.'

'But I will! Soon! You said so yourself. Once I'm in school I will learn to read!' Claire said.

'Yes! … Yes, you will! Of course, you will,' John assured Claire and when he saw disappointment flicker over his daughter's face he added, 'You'll see, you will be able to use your dictionary in no time!'

'You think so?'

'Definitely'

'Where's Dad?' Claire enquired anxiously, hanging up her coat on a hook in the hall and putting her boots underneath. She didn't want to be treated like a baby and she sometimes knew not to behave like one. When she turned back to John he saw that her dark blue eyes were full of concern and she was scanning the hall for any signs of her father.

John always marvelled at the curious mix of genes their daughter was. She had his eye colour and a skin as soft and unblemished as Sherlock's, but she was never as pale as her father and in the summer tanned as easily as John. Her hair was of a light auburn, closer to his dirty blond than to Sherlock's almost black, but it was as curly and unruly as Sherlock's. She wore it rather short these days, barely chin-length which gave her a slightly boyish air. Much to her distress it had always been a chore combing out her curls every night and lots of tears had been shed over it. Last summer she had been at the end of her tether and they had cut it short, but it was growing back now.

The structure of her face was entirely Sherlock, dominated by those slanted feline eyes and amazing cheekbones. She had lost the remaining puppy fat during the last half year, and just the right time that had been as she had started school last September.

'Dad's sleeping. He was very tired, you know how hard he had to work to catch all those evil villains. We've hardly seen anything of him, have we?'

'Yes,' Claire nodded solemnly, 'I know. But I want to see him now. I want to tell him what we did in town. I even saw Father Christmas, Daddy!'

'You did? My … what a lucky girl you are! Did you talk to him?'

'No, I couldn't. There were so many children who were pushing and they were bigger and stronger than me, so I stood back. You know, there was even one boy who pushed me out of the way and I fell down. He was really mean, that one and he called me a sissy because I cried.'

'Oh, what a nasty boy! Do you want me to tell Uncle Lestrade? He can arrest him and make him spend Christmas in prison, mending his evils ways!'

'You're silly, Daddy,' Claire giggled, the outrage quickly forgotten. John hugged her, but she soon squirmed in his arms, trying to get away, and John knew that he couldn't hold her back from waking Sherlock. He sighed, that was yet another character trait they shared, they were both stubborn to the point of obstinacy. If she wanted to see her Dad her Dad she would see.

'Right - Okay, Claire. Go and see him. But try to be quiet and maybe you could try not to wake him, sweetheart?'

'But I _must_ wake Dad! I have to tell him something important … A _secret_!' Claire's face was solemn, serious and there were yet another few stray tears blinking in her eyes. John's heart went out to her, she was so easily crying, always taking everything so seriously. He realized that there was no way he could not allow her to go and see or maybe even wake Sherlock. 'Off you go then, sweetie…' he pecked her on the cheek and she immediately turned to skip down the hall to the bedroom.

John went back into the kitchen and filled the kettle with water. He grabbed the tea caddy and fished out two teabags. When the kettle boiled he fetched two mugs, plopped the teabags in, poured the hot water, added milk to his and two sugars to Sherlock's and set off to carry the scolding hot tea to their bedroom.

Claire in her eagerness had left the bedroom door wide open and he could see his daughter sitting next to her father on the bed, leaning down to him. She was gently caressing his hair, weaving her fingers through his curls, and whispering incessantly into his ear. John stopped in the doorway, steaming mugs in his hands, it was hard to make out whether Sherlock, who was lying on his belly with his face turned away, was still sleeping. All he could hear was Claire's susurrant murmur, but then a low chuckle joined her whispering, indicating that Sherlock was indeed awake and listening intently.

They had a very strong connection, these two, an unbreakable bond even. They were very alike, so much so even that it was uncanny. So alike they were in fact that their stubbornness and their aloofness marked them as a unit indeed, but set them apart from John and other _ordinary people_ at the same time. John could sometimes only huff indignantly in the face of the intellectual prowess to which he was used in the father, but which was also to be found in the daughter whose mind seemed to be as razor sharp as Sherlock's.

What set them apart and sometimes even separated them was the obvious and indisputable fact that Claire was a girl. Sherlock would sit opposite her at times, study her and her girlish ways, a puzzled and only slightly amused frown on his face. Obviously it was fascinating and frightening him at equal measures, those childish and distinctly feminine mood swings and beavioural patterns. For John who was much more experienced as far as the female sex was concerned - he had grown up with a sister after all - it was always amusing to see Sherlock's incomprehension.

But the fact remained that Sherlock had no experience with women, never had been in a meaningful relationship with one, never had been even remotely interested in them. He never had had to suffer a sister willing to make his life miserable, and to top it all off had never even encountered female classmates tickling his pubescent hormones. He had lived, in short, a fairly _women-less_ life thus far. So, in the face of Claire's sometimes incomprehensible behaviour puzzle he would, filing those alien behavioural patterns away, eagerly trying to build a database for future cross-referencing purposes in his Sherlockian way.

But here they were now in a bubble of their own, united by a secret that Claire was whispering into Sherlock's ear. John dipped his chin, fighting an internal battle whether to leave or stay, when Sherlock lazily turned his head and caught John's eye. He nodded almost imperceptibly and John understood. He smiled at his husband and quietly turned on his heels to leave these two alone, blissfully sharing a secret on this late Christmas Eve afternoon.

x

It was like an explosion of festivity as their usually rather gloomy living room had become an interior decorator's Christmassy dream come true; the crackling fire in the fireplace, the Christmas tree blinking with fairy lights and laden with baubles and ornaments ranging from straw stars to glittering angels, to tiny magnifying glasses and pipes. And let's not forget the feisty angels and festive Father Christmasses scattered over all avaible surfaces and the huge red poinsettia on the coffee table.

Claire and John had started decorating the tree and the flat last week and had added the decoration successively. Going a bit over the top for Sherlock's rather subdued and classical taste, but he would bite his tongue and hold back any snarky comment for the sake of his sensitive daughter.

Now the living room was illuminated only by the fire and the fairy lights - fairly lights on the tree, in the windows, on the bookshelves, draped over the back of the sofa, coiled like a snake in the fruit bowl, devoid of any apples just now, of course. Thankfully the two had opted for the non-coloured variety, and Sherlock was even more thankful that they weren't blinking an incessant and frankly irritating tattoo of light.

Claire was fidgeting on the carpet between her parents, colouring a Christmas tree very similar to the one adorning their living room. In the face of Christmas Day being just around the corner she was a bundle of nerves, 'What's the time, Dad?'

'It's precisely ten minutes past eight, Claire. Exactly four minutes later than the last time you asked,' Sherlock answered sternly, but the words were accompanied by a tiny smile, taking the sting out of them.

'When will it be morning?' Claire demanded, adding a dash of silver to the treetop on her drawing.

'Well, that depends on how you define _morning_. If we're talking a reasonable time on a holiday I'd certainly opt for eight. If we're talking Christmas morning for an impatient five-year-old I'd say half seven would be just about acceptable,' Sherlock said, actually winking at John who raised an approving eyebrow.

'I'm sooo excited! Do you think Father Christmas will bring me the microscope?'

'He _might_ be …' Sherlock said and opened his mouth to say more. John, sensing a possible destruction of one of those eternal childhood mysteries imminent, shot Sherlock a warning glare and quickly folded his newspaper to put it on the floor next to his chair, 'Sweetheart … Actually, I think it's time for bed now!'

'I just have to finish this drawing, won't be long,' Claire said, carefully avoiding looking up and thus effectively cutting off any paternal comment. Sherlock and John exchanged a glance and smiled. She was the world's leading expert in delaying tactics, their little one, she most certainly was!

Sherlock uncrossed his long legs and got up from his chair. He smoothed down his blue dressing gown, and opened his violin case which lay next to the chair on the desk. His long fingers gently caressed the body of the gleaming instrument and then carefully extricated the violin from its casing. After a few tentative strokes with the bow he began to play and John settled back comfortably in his chair.

A sweet, mournful melody started filling the room, and it added yet a very different colour to this peaceful Christmas evening. Claire put her crayons aside and looked up, her face content and serious, she loved to hear her father play, had even had a few lessons herself.

She got up from the floor and skipped over to where John sat. He opened his arms and she clambered up on his lap, snuggling into his arms like a little cat. John placed a kiss on the crown of her head, burying his mouth in her wild curls. He felt the tension of the last days and weeks slowly drain away and he became ready to share some of the childlike enthusiasm and joyful anticipation Claire had been exuding like a perfume for weeks.

His eyes travelled from his daughter to Sherlock who stood in front of the window, his body gently swaying in tune with the music. Eyes closed, giving the impression of contentment and relaxation, entirely being at ease, his serene features offering the perfect canvas for the melodies which were dancing in colourful swirls through the room. He moved from Bach to Vivaldi, from Pachelbel to Christmas Carols, and John felt Claire relaxing more and more in his lap, becoming quieter and quieter, her limbs finally growing limp in her father's arms.

'She's asleep,' John whispered and chuckled. He studied her sleeping form for a moment before he gathered her safely in his arms and shuffled forward in his seat with a grunt. She was slight and lean, but it still took effort and with a bit of difficulty he got up from the lumpy and low chair to make the journey upstairs to her bedroom.

When he passed his husband, Sherlock stopped playing in mid-song, and leaned down to kiss first John and then his daughter. John frowned when their eyes met for a second, it could have been a trick of the light of course, but he was fairly sure that he had seen tears glittering in those piercing, but usually so very composed eyes.

He kissed Sherlock once again, glad of what he'd seen, relishing this softness like a very delicate scent or touch, as a sentiment in fact which still couldn't be called a constant companion of his husband. He smiled at Sherlock and hugged his sleeping daughter closer to his chest. Then he turned and slowly walked out into the hall and up the stairs to Claire's room.

* * *

**A/N**

I wrote parts of this chapter while the first snow of this winter was falling (end of October!) and it helped immensely to put me into a Christmassy mood ;-D

Thank you all so much for everything (you know, reviews, pms, favs, alerts). I truly appreciate each and every single reaction I get from you! JJ


	12. Winter, December PART II

**WINTER**

_December_

Part II – Christmas Day

_How can such delicate feet, attached to a graceful, nimble and lithe body produce such a noise_?

Sherlock blinked his tired eyes open, his sleep-riddled brain stubbornly refusing to acknowledge what the racket in the hallway meant. He sneaked a sleep-warm hand to his right, hoping for warmth, hoping for comfort. It found John's hip, gently gliding up and down the cotton pyjama bottoms, but his loving gesture only earned him a bad-tempered grunt.

'She's _bloody_ awake,' John mumbled into the cushions. The darkness enveloping them in a velvety black was an unfailing indicator that it was indeed still night or early morning at best. The blackness became frazzled around the edges, though, when suddenly light shone through the gap of the bedroom door which they had left ajar last night. More and more _glaring_ light as Claire must be successively switching on every available lamp in the flat.

'Half six!' John huffed indignantly, checking his watch on the bedside table. 'Half _six_! Can you bloody believe it? Why does she have to make such a racket at this unholy hour? Why, Sherl?'

Sherlock quirked an amused eyebrow, if anything it was John's unwarranted irritation and ill-tempered whining that had woken them fully, whereas Claire's Christmas Day excitement would have gone fairly unnoticed for a while. It simply could have been ignored, after all. He was good in ignoring things, for God's sakes, it was just a matter of will power!

'Well, John. We have two options now.' Sherlock said, trying to infuse calmness into his voice and to keep it low, no need to attract Claire's attention prematurely.

'Oh yeah? Like what?' John pressed out between gritted teeth, sounding very much like a disgruntled hedgehog being woken from hibernation against his will.

'_One_: We could ignore her and catch a bit more sleep. An option which would probably work for me if the perpetrator were you, but which very likely won't work with Claire as her excitement as far as Christmas is concerned has now reached its peak and simply _won't_ be ignored.'

John scoffed and flopped onto his back, giving the feather pillows a few angry punches on the way. 'Right - Give us the other one then,' he hissed.

'_Two_: We could wait here in our comfortable and warm bed until she'll come to fetch us, which will be, I guess, in twenty minutes at the latest.'

'Wonderful options, that,' John was, much to his own surprise, unwilling to be placated and continued to huff and puff like a grumpy old bear.

Sherlock listened to this ungracious huffing and puffing for a while and then turned on his side the better to study his distressed husband's sleepy face in the light falling in from the hallway. It was still a very handsome face, a face that hadn't in fact much changed in the last years, no, in the lifetime, they had known each other. Granted there were quite a few silver hairs at his temples, highlighting the sandy blonde, and a myriad of laughter lines around his eyes.

But what made him look like a grumpy old man now and which caused the corners of Sherlock's lips to curl into a mocking little smile was the righteous indignation written all John's usually so relaxed features. Sherlock lightly kissed John's exposed biceps, 'Merry Christmas, love.'

John let out the mirthless imitation of a laugh, but made an effort to sound less irritated when he said, 'Merry Christmas to you too, Sherl.' John adjusted his posture, trying to get more comfortable and when he let out a sigh which seemed to be coming from the deepest bottom of his good heart, he was obviously readying himself to accept the inevitable. 'Right – Okay,' he cleared his throat, buying yet a bit more time to calm down. 'What do you think? Will she open the presents without us?'

'I very much doubt it. She'll probably only poke, finger and probe more or less unsuccessfully for a while and then she'll come and fetch us.'

'Right - Is that what _you_ did every Christmas Day at the – um - _Holmes Manor_,' John asked, raising his eyebrows.

'No need – Christmas mornings never held any surprise for me. I knew what Mummy had bought us by mid-December the latest. Told Mycroft, too. He never appreciated it, though.'

'I wonder why …' John muttered and finally felt relaxed enough to smile. He snuggled up to Sherlock, his head on his chest, searching for the strong, steady and reassuring heartbeat that to John was the most calming sound in the world. He closed his tired eyes – maybe they _could_ find a bit more sleep.

The flat was eerily silent now, and John harboured the faint hope that their daughter might have fallen asleep on the sofa or gone back up to her room … but soon enough he heard soft footsteps approaching, then stopping outside their bedroom. Followed only a moment later by a tentative knock and Claire's excited voice piping up, 'Daddy? Dad? Are you awake?'

x

'This is for you, Daddy,' Claire's face was beaming, her cheeks reddened with the excitement. She stood in front of John, who was sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace. Her hands were holding a smallish parcel, wrapped in a shiny red and silver paper and topped with an illustrious red bow. Apart from the bow which was there solely for decorative reasons, it was held together by what must have been an entire roll of Sellotape.

'Thank you, sweetheart,' John pecked Claire on the cheek and took the parcel from her hands. 'It looks lovely,' John raised his eyebrows, admiring her handiwork. He turned the parcel in his hands trying to find a place between all the Sellotape to rip it open. Claire watched attentively, her eyes never leaving John. After a moment she became impatient and went over to Sherlock who was sitting on the floor, cross-legged, his back leaning against his chair, and sat down in his lap. Sherlock enveloped her in his arms and whispered something in her ear which made her giggle.

'Making fun of me, are we?' John grunted, still trying to find a way to unwrap Claire's present. Eventually he succeeded and when he had peeled the last layer of the shiny paper, which Claire had used in abundance, away, his jaw dropped. 'Oh, that's so … so lovely …'

'I told you he'd like it,' Claire said solemnly, addressing Sherlock, sounding much older than her five years.

'So you did, Claire. So you did,' Sherlock conceded and watched John who seemed to be fighting with tears. He raised an eyebrow, John was getting more and more sentimental these days. Maybe a character trait intensifying with age? What an interesting display of emotions this Christmas morning offered him to study. First the exaggerated anger at being woken so early, now the overly sentimental reaction to a present. John had always been a very emotional man, both in anger and in joy, but even for John this was out of the ordinary.

John inhaled shakily and looked down on the present in his lap, a framed photograph, a studio shot, professionally done. A beautiful portrait of Sherlock and Claire in black and white.

It showed Claire snuggling up to Sherlock's face, they were cheek to cheek and they both seemed to be staring at John with their amazing eyes and faces. They were not broadly smiling or grinning like Cheshire Cats, no there only was a very fine smile playing around their lips. It was a fantastic, mesmerizing shot and what made John swallow thickly with emotions was that it had captured the love between father and daughter perfectly and that it was there in their eyes, plain to see for everyone who cared to look.

Sherlock frowned again as he saw the army of raw emotions marching across John's face – Claire apparently saw them just as clearly and half-turned to Sherlock, rolling her eyes, actually smirking. Sherlock arched an astonished eyebrow and John said, 'I saw that young lady!'

Claire put her hand over mouth to hide the giggling fit that was threatening to take over and piped a sweet, 'Sorry, Daddy!' She got up and skipped over to John, wrapping her thin arms around his neck and hugging him with all her childlike enthusiasm. John responded with a fierceness that made Sherlock avert his eyes as it was such an obvious display of need.

Sherlock cleared his throat and tried to return to less emotional and therefore safer and more comfortable ground. He checked his watch and saw it was time to get ready for the day. So he decided to be the one taking command and announced, 'Departure for Burleigh Hall alias _Holmes Manor_ in two hours, my dears!'

x

'Tell me Claire, what did Father Christmas bring you this year?' Mycroft asked his niece. For an outsider, not used to the Holmesian ways his tone of voice might have appeared cold and condescending, but for a family insider it was obvious to see how fond he was of her. The signs were there to read for everyone: The tiny smile curling his thin lips, the fact that he got down on his knees to talk to her, the gentle pat to her head, not patronising, but heartfelt. Yes, Mycroft Holmes loved his only niece and he wasn't shy to show her his fondness in his very own way.

Sherlock watched his brother and Claire from where he sat on the red brocade settee. He held a cup of untouched after-dinner coffee between his slender fingers. Christmas dinner had been an uneventful and rather hilarious affair, no comparison to the torturing family dinners he had had to sit through as a boy. Sherlock's face involuntarily distorted into a sad imitation of a smile at the memory. He put down the cup into its saucer on the low glass table and looked around the room where family and friends had gathered. A huge Christmas tree dominated the family drawing room, decorated in tasteful gold and silver, adorned with real candles flickering softly in the air and filling the room with a warm and yellow glow.

Harry and Susan were talking quietly in one corner with Mrs Hudson who was recovering from another hip operation and had grown rather frail lately. Mummy had excused herself after dinner and had gone upstairs because she was suffering from yet another splitting headache. She wasn't missed, at least not by her sons who always felt the weight of expectations on their shoulders as long as she was around.

Sherlock let his gaze trail idly through the large room until it settled on Molly and Greg Lestrade who were playing with their three-year-old twin boys on the expensive Persian rug in front of the fireplace. A smile flickered over Sherlock's face when he watched his two old friends who had finally found happiness with each other.

Mycroft and Claire sat side by the side next to the tree, admiring the presents, no doubt exchanging gruesome and very un-Christmassy stories which Claire loved to listen to so much, especially to the ones Uncle Mycroft told her. Sherlock marvelled at the animated look on his brother's face. His brother who was usually so stiff and always careful to exude a distinct coldness. It had been Claire who had had the power to bring them nearer to each other than ever, her sheer existence had managed to build a bridge where there had been only an abyss before.

Sherlock's gaze wandered back to the chair next to him where John had sat earlier and when he found it empty he remembered John saying something about catching some air after their truly sumptuous meal. But surely? - Sherlock checked his watch - He should be back by now? He shuffled forward on the settee, ready to go after him. Not willing to disturb the quiet and peaceful atmosphere he made sure that nobody noticed him leaving and set off to look for his husband.

He eventually found him in the ground floor library, standing in the open balcony doors. Apparently he hadn't noticed Sherlock coming in as he didn't turn around or acknowledged his presence in any other way. Sherlock's heart clenched when he saw how forlorn John's dark silhouette looked against the gleaming white snow in the garden. The room was gloomy, only illuminated by the moonlight falling in through the huge windows on either side of the room and very chilly from the icy night air streaming in from the outside.

Sherlock softly closed the door behind him and walked up to John. When he placed his hand gently on John's shoulder he flinched and started as if waking from a dream.

'Sorry, I didn't want to startle you,' Sherlock softly said, stepping behind him and wrapping his arms around John's torso, placing his hands lightly on his belly. He buried his mouth in John's hair and kissed the crown of his head. John leaned back into Sherlock and let out a sigh, 'You didn't, love. I was just … I …' he broke off as if he couldn't remember what he had wanted to say.

'Yes?' Sherlock softly said, gently prodding him to go on, but John remained quiet. 'What's the matter, John? What is it?'

'I don't know ... yet ... but I think there's something terribly wrong with me,' John whispered almost tonelessly.

* * *

**A/N **This is not the end ... there are **two more chapters** to come! Initially I had planned twelve chapters as in twelve months, but then I split up August and December and now it's going to be fourteen ... I couldn't end it like that anyway, could I?

Thank you all so much for your support, my dears! Please keep it up … JJ


	13. Winter, January

**WARNING**:

This chapter deals with sickness and imminent death. It is painful and sad, and it will leave Sherlock, John and Claire devastated. But it also a testament to their deep love and understanding.

* * *

**WINTER**

_January_

Devoid of all the cheery Christmas decorations the room had shrunk into a bleak, grey and deserted shell, the ice cold January air seemingly pushing in through the windows, seeping through the walls, taking the warm air hostage, recklessly overriding any cosiness that might still have lingered from the past riot of colours.

Sherlock lazily tilted his head to the right and squinted. Among the ocean of greyness there gleamed a smudge of colour on the mantelpiece, a tiny Father Christmas figurine Claire and John must have overlooked when they had stowed away all their decorations in the past days. It hurt how much out of place it looked, mocking him, taunting him, like a remnant of a happier, a warmer, but forgone time. Cold and gloom were taking command, gradually permeating and poisoning the whole flat.

The weather had turned today and icy rain was whipping angrily against the window panes, but Sherlock's numbed mind only vaguely registered the nervous and insistent tapping of the heavy drops. A winter storm had been predicted for that night, a full-blown one, complete with falling temperatures, heavy winds and snow.

With an enormous effort Sherlock tore away his gaze from the cheery red of the Father Christmas and braced himself to finally break the lingering silence. This - _business_ - had stunned him. Stunned him into silence … _him_ … _because you know … how can you talk … how can you ever return to …? _

Of course he was aware that they couldn't avoid talking infinitely. And if he could bring himself to stop being such a coward then … _now_ … was as good as any moment really. Sherlock cast his eyes down, studying the cold ash and dust which had accumulated in front of the fireplace, and when he finally spoke his voice seemed like an intruder into the cold greyness of the room, sounding faraway and alien even to his own ears.

'How did you first notice?'

John looked up, trying to focus on the words that were dancing like tiny colourful stars among the greyness. They had been sitting side by side on the sofa in a wordless silence for the good part of an hour.

'I … um …' he cleared his throat, 'Became more and more forgetful.'

Recalling, weighing his words, trying to phrase it concisely.

'I forgot appointments, in fact only remembered them when it was too late, I had problems finding the right words … I dropped things, mislaid stuff. I put the bloody house keys in the fridge and couldn't for the life of me find them when I looked for them. Found them again in the evening when I prepared dinner.'

John scoffed and buried his head in his hands, running tired hands over his ashen face. But there seemed to be no stopping him now as he strongly felt he couldn't allow silence and apathy taking residence between them again.

'All those symptoms could have been explained with stress or getting older and I could have fooled myself into believing or _pretending_ …' He broke off as if to draw breath and inhaled shakily. He dipped his chin and bit his lip, desperately and foolishly trying to keep a groan inside. 'That was … um … taken away from me when the headaches and the dizziness started, a boring pain behind my right eye, and my eyesight was … _is _affected.'

He breathed heavily, swallowing thickly around the persistent lump in his throat, only to gulp for air the next second as he relived those frightening, dark and horrible moments when he had been stupid enough to remain in this alone.

A bit more than an hour ago they had returned from the Yard where John had been so absent and so obviously ill at ease that Sherlock had ended the meeting under a pretence and taken them both home. Since Christmas they had not talked a lot - Sherlock had not been able to muster enough will or rather courage to learn the details of this _business_. They had studiously evaded the core of the matter, had been careful to avoid mentioning that anything was out of the ordinary.

Sherlock was well aware that this behaviour had been cowardly - as if _not_ knowing, as if ignoring _it _would make everything disappear into thin air. Mind you, John had not been inclined to talk much either. A period of strange and muffled silence it had been with both of them behaving as if breaking it would mean opening a Pandora's box. So they had focused on Claire and on work instead.

But _now? -_ Now they were sitting on the sofa, as close as possible, next to each other, feeling, sensing, smelling the other, finally- _finally_ - talking.

John seemed exhausted by reliving his pain and had fairly shrunk into himself, weakly leaning forward. Sherlock wrapped his arm around his shoulder and gathered him close, back towards him, not allowing him to lean away. It was paramount that they should feel each other now and that he should offer as much comfort as possible. He didn't want to push John, though, so resigned himself to waiting, waiting for him to continue.

John gladly leaned against Sherlock's warm chest, feeling the steady and reassuring thumping of his strong heart through the thin fabric of his shirt. When he spoke again his voice seemed weaker than before.

'As I said, I managed to cover up my forgetfulness quite well, explained it away with stress, with age. Forgetfulness is normal when you're getting older, isn't it? And after all we are _not_ young anymore. But … when I realized that this …' John's voice broke and he dipped his chin again, consciously breathing in and out a few times to calm down. Sherlock's heart clenched painfully when he saw John so weak, so beaten and so afraid – _fading_ -

'I'm too young for _this_!' John spat out. 'Too young to go, too young to … And … Claire … she _needs_ me …' A sob escaped his mouth then and he turned and buried his face in Sherlock's shirt, grabbing the cotton and holding on to it with all his might, almost tearing the fine striped fabric.

'We will fight it, love,' Sherlock said, his voice low and strangled. He caressed John's heaving back, gently and soothingly moving his warm hand up and down, trying to inject confidence into his words he didn't feel. 'We will do whatever we can, everything there is … we will …'

'There is _nothing_ we can do and you know that as well as I do – that's the curse of being a doctor and a bloody genius. We both _know!' _

Despite the underlying sarcasm John had spoken softly, slumped against Sherlock's chest. The hopelessness apparent in those few words and in the way they had been delivered made Sherlock want to scream. Scream as loud as he could, scream this fucking black unfairness out of his lungs, trample and spit on it, destroy it, irrevocably, chase it until it collapsed and died.

He didn't, though, of course he didn't. He kept everything inside.

Instead he walked along a dark side corridor and opened the door to yet a new room in his mind palace. A sick room - a hated, despised and unwanted room - one that would be ignored as long as possible. He could only bring himself to open the door a tiny crack, through, and to throw those feelings into this frightening and cold room without so much as peeking inside. Without a further thought he slammed the door shut.

John had calmed down in his arms, he was still trembling, but his breathing was coming less ragged and more regular now. 'We must tell Claire. I mean, _no_ … not _exactly_, but we have to explain why I am different. I won't be able to hide the symptoms of the treatment once it has started. When that happens you need to take command …'

'You mean more than I already do?' A feeble joke, granted, but one that earned Sherlock a snort, and he was content with that. Oh yes, he would take that.

'Yes, love. Even more than you already do because I won't be … able to.'

Sherlock's eyes welled up with tears then and he didn't fight them, no, he let them come. He realised with startling clarity that he would never be able to fight them again.

'How long?' he asked, his voice thick with tears. John chose to ignore this uncharacteristic display of emotions, usually he would never have let it go, but things had changed.

'It's difficult to say. From diagnosis to …' he broke off, closing his eyes, forcing back the panic that was bubbling up inside his throat. 'Well … a few years the most, maybe two, maybe more, if we're lucky … maybe less … I guess we will just have to accept whatever we're given.'

'Is it operable?'

'Not yet … we'll have to go through a cycle of Chemo first and then we'll decide.'

It was strange, but finally telling Sherlock somehow helped to distance himself from his sickness, from this _bloody_ tumor, sitting right behind his right eye, a malignant growth, a hated, _hated_ _bloody_ intruder.

He realised that he could keep the hate and the desperation inside at least for the moment when he reverted to his professional doctor persona. And this revelation lifted some of the heavy burden that had weighed John down ever since he had suspected all those weeks ago, ever since Christmas Day when he had finally opened up to Sherlock.

The world around him was still pitch black and panic flooded him whenever his unguarded thoughts travelled back to what would be his fate, but he wasn't alone, no, he wasn't alone in all this misery anymore. And that was a relief, it was such a _bloody_ relief.

oOo

_Heat – incredible heat, pooling on skin, scorching, burning – The sea, blue, abysmally blue, shimmering into a bright turquoise in places, luring me in, begging me to let go. But I don't want to, I don't want to go in, it looks alien, and unfriendly. I'll just stay here – in safety. Where's …? Where is she? Where? - She's not here – But she has been here ten, no five minutes ago – Where? All the other children are gone as well … Where's Sherl? Where is everybody? Didn't the sea move towards me just now? Didn't it move closer? No … No! Stay away, stay away from me! Where are you, Claire? Where are you, Sherl? Don't leave me … Don't leave me alone! NO!_

John sat up startled, panting heavily. Somebody screaming loudly and desperately had woken him. He looked around, searching the room, scanning the flat, but only emptiness and cold, hostile air stared back at him. He let himself fall back onto the cushion on the sofa, his fingers curling around the hem of the woollen blanket that covered him, holding onto it. He puffed heavily, the panic angrily demanding to be breathed out of his lugs, out of his system. Putting one arm underneath his head, he slowly uncurled his fingers around the blanket and placed his hand on his belly, establishing contact. A posture he found to be soothing, relaxing.

As his breathing slowly calmed down, it came back to him that he was all alone in the flat. Sherlock had gone out on an errant two hours ago and Claire was with Harry and wouldn't be back before late afternoon. John checked his watch, half four, couldn't be long, he'd better get up and try to get a bit decent. It was paramount to keep up appearances, to hold together, especially for Claire, but also for Sherlock and nonetheless for himself.

They hadn't told Claire yet, but they had to - soon. Chemo therapy was about to start and he couldn't hide the likely symptoms, the nausea, the freezing, the vomiting, the possible loss of hair. He folded back the blanket and with a grunt he sat up. A motion he soon regretted as his head started spinning and he had to close his eyes, trying not to faint. Tiny white stars were dancing in front of his closed eyes and he let his head hang between his knees to steady himself.

'What's wrong with you, Daddy?'

Startled John opened his eyes to the spinning room and turned his head to the door. His upper body was slightly swaying and he had to squint to focus on his daughter who was standing in the doorframe. 'Claire! Where's Harry, sweetheart?'

'She had to hurry, she just let me in and went off –' Claire bit her lip and asked again, 'What's wrong with you Daddy?'

John opened his arms, trying to hide his dizziness and the persistent nausea, trying to cover it all with a smile. Claire slowly walked over from the door, a frown on her pretty little face. She climbed onto his lap and snuggled up to him.

'Nothing's wrong with me, sweetie. Daddy's just a bit tired, that's all … and I think I might be coming down with the flu.'

_This is a heaven-sent opportunity. I can tell her now … I have to …_

'Oh, all my schoolmates are sick at the moment, we are only six left in my class,' Claire said, curling the corners of her mouth into a mocking lopsided smile, quietly snickering, proud of her hitherto infallible health.

_Oh, you are so like your father, proud and extraordinary …_

'Six? Are you absolutely sure, sweetie? That means fourteen sick pupils! That sounds like a …' John stopped mid-sentence, the word he was looking for had slipped his mind _– What? What? -_ 'A … well …' he frantically groped for the word – _For God's sakes!_ - 'An epidemic! It sounds like an epidemic, doesn't it?'

'What's an _erpademic_? Oh, wait, don't tell me – I'll get my dictionary!_' _

Eagerly she jumped down from his knees, so quickly that John couldn't even react and bounded up the stairs to her room.

_Off she goes, bouncing with energy, a symbol of youth - lovely and mine … _

She was back in no time, the dictionary Harry had given her for Christmas in her hands. 'There, can you read it to me?'

'Let me see,' John was thumping through the pages until he had found the right one. 'Epidemic …' he began, but Claire interrupted him, her eagerness to know forgotten, replaced by worry. 'Daddy? Are you sure you're okay? You are so strange and you do look a bit feverish!'

_Now – tell her – you have to – Just do it …_

'Yes, sweetheart. I'm sure I'm fine,' John buried his nose in his daughter's curls, breathing in her scent and damning his cowardice. 'It's all fine,' he whispered.

oOo

'I can't tell her,' John said softly when they lay in bed that night. Sherlock's eyes flew open and he turned to John who lay on his back next to him. '_You_ have to do it, Sherl. I … um … just can't.'

Sherlock's heart clenched and he could only think about what this implied. An imminent start of the Chemo, deterioration, weakness, pain and darkness. Despite the threat this posed he was composed enough not to let any of those thoughts travel beyond his lips. Instead he nodded in the darkness of their bedroom and enveloped John's cold fingers in his warm hand and squeezed.

'Don't worry, love. I will tell her,' he whispered, unsure of his voice, not trusting to raise it above whispering level.

'You know what really gets to me,' John continued as if Sherlock hadn't spoken. 'I mean – I'm frightened and panicked all the time about what is going to happen, how long this will last. How much time I have left.' His voice was soft, barely above a whisper, and Sherlock had to strain his ears to catch his words.

'But what really wears me out and weighs me down and makes me scream with rage is that I won't see Claire grow up. I will never see her as an adult, as a grown woman. I will not know where life will take her. I will never know if she'll be a mother, will make you a grandfather. If she'll become a doctor or a detective. It's just … so _fucking unfair_ …'

His voice broke and Sherlock fully turned to him, hugging him, tightening his grip on him, holding him as close as possibly. He buried his lips in John's neck and covered the hot skin with kisses. John responded to Sherlock's touch and they embraced, intertwining their legs, their arms, comforting, soothing, holding on. When John brought his lips up to Sherlock's he poured all the desperation and anguish into this kiss, and Sherlock breathed everything in, making it his own, taking part, sharing it. He returned the kiss with a feverish passion that was meant to make them forget for a while, that was meant to stop them thinking, that was meant to cover the black abyss, if only momentarily.

They lay huddled closely together afterwards, panting, exhausted, emotionally and physically. But when the sad glow of their lovemaking had subsided helplessness and desperation which seemed to turn into constant companions of every waking hour inevitably returned.

It killed Sherlock that he could not help John. It killed him that he was confronted with an enemy refusing to show his true face and was cowardly operating in the dark instead. He was sentenced to being a bystander, helplessly witnessing John's agony.

But he could help him in one respect. John would never bring himself to tell Claire, he had seen the pain in his eyes, and he had seen the effort it had taken to hide the symptoms that already plagued him. The dizziness, the nausea, the headaches, the amnesiac aphasia. It was Sherlock's curse that he observed everything, registered everything, filed everything away in that blasted room that he still hadn't entered.

But now John had asked him for help and in the face of what he had to go through it wasn't much, just a favour really. He would talk to Claire and try to explain. Yes, that's what he would do for his John.

oOo

Sherlock was true to his word and lost no time. He told Claire the next day when he collected her from school and when they walked home together, slowly, ignoring the world that had stopped turning for them. Sherlock told their daughter and he didn't hold back, told her what was the problem with John, why he would be tired and maybe irritable and weak in the coming weeks, told her how much John loved her and how proud they both were of her.

Sherlock carried her when she cried against his shoulder because she understood the seriousness and sadness behind her father's words, if not the possible consequences. He cradled her sobbing little form against his chest like he had done when she had been a baby while he tried to soothe and comfort her.

And together they went home in the grey and icy cold January day, home to 221B Baker Street, home to John.

* * *

**A/N** Thank you all so much for your support!

There will be one more chapter and then Sherlock, John and Claire's story will be told (for now). JJ


	14. Winter, February

**WARNING: **This chapter will be very painful to read as it deals with **major character death**.

* * *

**WINTER**

_February_

'I'm driving,' John announced, his tone of voice allowing no contradiction.

'Certainly not!' Sherlock was incredulous and turned away from stowing the luggage into the car's boot with a flourish, the sudden movement making his great coat billow out dramatically behind him. 'You are still prone to dizzy spells and you as a doctor must know that this condition does _not_ mix with driving a car.'

'I can assure you that I am absolutely fine, as a doctor, as your loving husband, and as the better driver.'

'What do you mean? The better driver?'

'Come on Sherl! You're a lousy driver.'

'I'm most certainly not!'

'Yes, you are! You only ever use the one gear as if using the other four would ignite a hidden explosive device and therefore has to be avoided at all costs. And with Claire in the back we'll better not take any chances. This is it, Sherl! I'm driving!'

Sherlock frowned, but remained silent. He wasn't entirely sure if letting John drive the rental car from the airport to the chalet was a good idea, but the firm set of John's mouth told him that this was a non-negotiable matter. Sherlock wouldn't be Sherlock if he hadn't tried nonetheless. 'Seriously, John. How can you _even_ assume -'

'Stop it _now_!' a small voice piped up, 'I'm freezing, it's snowing and it's getting late. Daddy, you drive and Dad, you navigate!'

Two heads turned simultaneously to Claire who had wedged herself between them, stepping from one freezing foot onto the other. She looked exasperated and stood with a frown knitting her brows and her arms akimbo in a gesture mimicking Mrs Winterbottom, her admired class teacher.

'Right – Okay,' John's mouth immediately softened into a tiny smile, witness of his willingness to obey his daughter's strict command. Sherlock and John exchanged an amused glance which effectively ended their silly argument and together they hoisted the heavy suitcase into the boot, strapped Claire into her seat and got ready to set off into the ice cold and clear morning air.

When John saw that the car was in a fact a European model, the steering wheel on the left side, his confidence took a minor blow, but of course he wouldn't give Sherlock the satisfaction to voice his discomfort. Instead he cleared his throat and turned the key in the ignition, 'Right – Let's be off then!'

oOo

More than a year had passed since they had been confronted with that devestating diagnosis which had sent their lives topsy-turvy. This past year had been characterized by a constant up and down, by hopes lost and hopes regained. John had gone through a cycle of chemo to reduce the size of the tumor followed by an operation last summer. Another cycle of chemo had concluded this ordeal - at least conclusion was what they all hoped for. John had suffered horribly during the treatment, feeling nauseous and wretched for two and half weeks, only to find respite in two and a half days of relative comfort before the next dose of those bloody rays had been due to douse his body.

But all of this was hopefully in the past and now they felt confident enough again to travel. This weekend trip was intended to be a celebration, a reward for those past miseries. Claire had been allowed to choose their destination and she had opted for a weekend in the snow. And so this early Friday morning they had taken off from Heathrow airport to fly to Zurich and then travel on to St. Moritz by car. It was a treat, a luxurious extravagance to be enjoyed as a family, to be seen as a gift.

oOo

Finally arrived they wowed and cooed appropriately over the gorgeous wooden chalet they had rented. Claire was dumb-struck by the vast amount of brilliant white snow, which covered every road, every treetop, every roof, and which was something she had never experienced before, city dweller that she was. She couldn't get enough of it and so it was according to her wishes that they spent the rest of Friday strolling through the white winter landscape.

On Saturday morning something else caught Claire's fancy and she was nagging and cajoling until John caved in and went sleigh riding down the little hill behind their chalet with her.

Sunday morning saw them dabbling a bit in downhill skiing. Racing down the same small hill, behind their chalet, with skis they had rented in the village. John was a good skier and Claire seemed to be a natural as she proudly and excitedly told Sherlock at noon when they both came home for a quick lunch with gleaming faces, tired and frozen to the bones.

Sherlock didn't care for snow overly much, well, he could appreciate the beauty of it, hold a lecture differentiating the thousands of different shapes snow crystals could adopt, but he would never balance his long legs precariously on two thin slats, moving downhill at breakneck speed.

Instead he used the time John and Claire spent outside in the wintery coldness to worm his way through some cold cases Lestrade had brought round to 221B before they had left. It was a good way to pass the time and an excellent mental exercise, but most importantly it took his mind off John for a while.

John, who for more than a year now had occupied every tiny crevice of his mind, his illness occupying every waking second and most of his dreams - and with his usual meticulousness bordering on obsession he just couldn't let go. No, all the good, the bad, the hopeful, the horrifying and the sad moments this past year had brought them had been neatly filed and stored away in his mind palace.

Sherlock looked up from the file he was working on when he heard them coming back in the late afternoon. Unnoticed by Sherlock it had grown dark around him in the chalet, but now John and Claire's excited chatter was soon filling the hitherto empty chalet, bringing warmth and joy and light to the unfamiliar and gloomy rooms. A heartfelt smile curled the corners of Sherlock's lips and he got up from his chair to greet them.

oOo

Sherlock softly closed the door to Claire's room. 'I read as far as chapter one and then she fell asleep. She is thoroughly exhausted –' He smiled, 'Come to think of it, that is a first actually - Claire asleep at eight in the evening. Skiing must have really worn her out. We should definitely repeat that.'

'_Jesus_ - I know that _I'm_ bloody knackered myself. I can only imagine what it must be like for her.' John chuckled in reminiscence. 'She was insatiable. She's going to be a really good skier when she keeps going.' John glanced away and Sherlock understood, it was always hard for John to refer to the future, and so he hurried to help him take his mind off this particular track.

'Where did you go with her?' He crossed the cosy open plan living room and sat down beside John on the large sofa. John turned to him and smiled, 'Oh, we stayed on that hill close to the chalet. We were too lazy to go any further. You know our daughter, she's a Londoner through and through, not used to craggy Alpine valleys. She downright refused to go any further. Mind you she didn't complain about going down the slopes more than twenty-odd times.'

He had put his hand on the nape of Sherlock's neck and playfully weaved his fingers through some stubborn curls there, softly caressing and exerting just the right amount of pressure to convey what he wanted. Sherlock followed his lead and slipped down on the sofa like a languid cat to place his head in his lap. John sighed contently and smiled down into those slanted ice blue eyes that were still as piercing and mesmerizing as they had been all those years ago. They stared right back into him, right into his core, to the essence of his being. It didn't disconcert John, though, no, it calmed him.

'My Jack,' Sherlock whispered and the appealing lopsided smile accompanying those words made his face look very young and boyish and John willingly answered it. What an opportunity to study Sherlock's face as he lay there, calm and still. Sherlock undoubtedly was studying him as well - as he always was, _always_ looking for signs, for traces of fatigue, of pain, trying to figure out his health, his state of mind. John scoffed good-naturedly and Sherlock almost instinctively answered with a renewed version of his trademark smile. It was an entire non-verbal conversation executed by curling a lip or knitting a brow and it was the epitome of their closeness and connection.

John bent down and lightly kissed Sherlock's soft and warm lips. A low moan answered him and John smiled against his upper lip, dominated by this outstanding Cupid's bow. Funny that he should register all those so familiar details, John thought. It was as if he was taking stock, memorising, assuring himself of his love's presence.

He straightened his back again and resumed his scrutiny – His eyes roaming from plush lips over a straight and elegant nose to strong eyebrows and dark curls framing his forehead - Sherlock was still beautiful, the angelic and ethereal quality that had made him so outstanding as a young man, had never left him. Granted, there were fine silver strands in his dark hair, but it was still full and luscious. Laughter lines around his eyes were aplenty, and they crinkled in the most appealing way when a smile reached his eyes. And those cheekbones of his were even sharper than usual as the past year had not gone unnoticed.

In fact, they both were very thin, if not bony. John as a result of the treatment and the operation, and Sherlock, never a good eater, had reverted to the habit of foregoing meals which they had believed overcome a long time ago. Mind you, they both had always made sure that Claire ate healthily, but had been aiming for far less in their own persons. Sherlock simply didn't like eating, never had, it was a necessity, but one he had gladly neglected in the past months.

John lifted his hand from Sherlock's chest and trailed his fingers along the sharp lines that made his face, using his fingertips to outline all the hollows and angles. Soft and warm fingertips, ever so gently caressing his skin and weaving through his hair, tenderly tugging at the curls, disentangling them. For once Sherlock lay utterly still in John's lap, his eyes closed now, as there was no need to speak, to communicate or even to move. They were at peace.

A fire was crackling in the fireplace and through the windows the dark night seeped into the room. A darkness which wasn't complete, but interspersed with the pinpricks of light coming from some others chalets on the slopes opposite and brightened by the moonlight which was reflected million fold from the snow crystals. It was very calm and it was beautiful.

'You know what I wish for,' John said softly, breaking the silence.

'Mmmh?'

'I wish for us to return here for a weekend every year. Just like the one we've just had. Every February we will still have together. As long as we can.'

Sherlock opened his eyes then and looked at John. He saw peace there mingling with traces of fear, but the fear couldn't quite chase away the peace which he read in John's face for the first time since this _business_ had started. He couldn't help but nod, yes, of course, that's what they would do. 'Yes, love. Every February we will come here. As long as we can.'

oOo

The Swiss chalet saw them coming back five times. It saw Claire growing from a small girl into almost a teenager, saw her enjoying the snow and skiing, saw John and Sherlock leaving for long walks, or just sitting on the patio, huddled in thick woollen blankets, greedily breathing in the cold and clear winter air. It saw John quietly enjoying every time they returned. And every time they returned was a victory over fate.

But fate was adamant and clearly wasn't willing to be outwitted time and again and the last time they returned both of them knew that John was living on borrowed time. The tumor had come back and his mental and physical state had deteriorated quickly in the past weeks. Chemo had not resulted in the desperately hoped for improvement and John knew, just knew, as a doctor and a patient that there was not much hope left. Sherlock realised as well, although they tried to avoid talking about it. Instead they tried to live every remaining day to the fullest.

They had arrived yesterday and now John was sitting outside in the patio, swaddled in a down jacket, a woollen hat, scarf, gloves and enough blankets wrapped around him to render him nearly immobile. Sherlock had gone inside to fetch a book and another scarf for himself as the darkening skies threatened with dropping temperatures.

When he returned after some minutes he took a moment to stand in the open patio door and watch John. Sherlock had reverted to watching him a lot. Observing, trying to figure out what was going on, not only in John's mind, but also in his body. And it drove him almost up the wall that this process which was destroying John was irreversible and inescapable and finite.

John had closed his eyes and turned his face to the last weak rays of winter sun which fought a desperate and losing battle against the dark clouds. His face was all angular these days, his cheeks hollowed out and his body thin to the point of emaciation. A woollen hat covered his bald head and his skin bore the ashen sallowness of the sick. As much as Sherlock hated this illness, he couldn't help but admire John's unwavering bravery and the stoic acceptance of his fate. Those past years which had seen them living constantly with the threat of imminent death, had somewhat steeled him, no, both of them really.

Sherlock squinted up into the winter sky. More clouds had gathered and had chased the sun away. Tiny snowflakes started falling out of the grey clouds and Sherlock saw John turning his face skywards. Struggling he forced his hand out from under the blankets and managed to get off his glove. Sherlock started towards him to help, but something stopped him and he let John have this moment.

John held out his hand to catch the tiny snow crystals on his bare skin, watched them as they immediately melted when they came into contact with his hot and parched skin. Sherlock looked on, enthralled by this moment of peace. Then the snow started falling in thicker and thicker flakes, paradoxically darkening the day with their whiteness. John half-turned to acknowledge Sherlock's presence and smiled. Sherlock couldn't understand it, but this sweet smile fairly rooted him to the spot when at the same time an almost inhuman urge was pulling him towards John, an irresistible, burning urge. It was utterly confusing.

And suddenly it seemed as if the falling snow, the myriad of snowflakes, were falling just for John, were only falling to claim him, to make him one of their own. Sherlock's heart painfully constricted and with tears in his eyes he realised that it looked as if John was slowly fading away.

oOo

John died four weeks later.

In the end it all went very fast. One day there was still hope that he would see another month or two, which soon dwindled down to two weeks, one week and then one morning he was gone.

Nothing in this godforsaken world could have prepared Sherlock for the emptiness John's death would leave behind. Nothing could have prepared him for the meaningless of such profane things as getting up in the morning, of going to bed at night, of eating, of drinking, of breathing.

Nothing could have prepared him for such a strong wish to follow him immediately.

Of course they had all known that their time together would end soon, the doctors had been quite clear on that and John himself had had no illusions, how could he have, he knew exactly what would happen to him. Almost six years ago they had won a round against cancer, but this blasted illness had always been lurking in the background and this time around it was not to be outwitted again. They had won six precious years and Claire, Sherlock and John had taken advantage of them to the fullest.

_Nothing_ could have prepared Sherlock for the shock of being so alone, so utterly and miserably alone. And probably the hardest thing to admit was that he felt as if he had been catapulted back to the point where he had been before John had entered his life all those decades ago, before John had come and rescued him – He was afraid of life and of living amd he had lost his purpose and his anchor in life.

But there was Claire, and she needed him. In the end it was her presence and her love for him and John which would not allow him to fall apart at the seams. She proved to be the string that tied him to the here-and-now and held him back from leaning too precariously close to the black abyss that was his mourning for John. It was his Claire, his daughter, his responsibility, which made him realise that he had to pull himself together and to simply live on.

Ordinary, everyday, dull life came back gradually, tiny step by tiny step. It proved hard for them both, for Sherlock and for Claire, to find a way back to something that could be labelled _normality_. And it felt like treason sometimes, to simply go on with life when John had been forced to leave so early. But they were in it together and they struggled through it together and they both hurt like they had never hurt before.

And so they would cling to each other and cry together when they went to visit John's grave and left a single flower there, every single Saturday. This little ritual soon became important as it proved to be the first step back to something resembling structure in their life.

And whenever Claire came home from school and found her father sitting in his favourite chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin, lost in his own world, lost in the past, she would walk up to him, and wrap her arms around his bony shoulders until he was able to find a way back into the here-and-now.

He would blink then, a few times, a deep furrow above his nose, before he would slightly turn his head and fix his sad eyes on his daughter. 'Claire, you're back,' he would invariably say, always a slight note of surprise in those words. And Claire's answer to her father's words would never vary either, 'Yes, Dad. I'm back, I'm here with you.'

And so it was Claire - John's daughter - who was his anchor now. The anchor which tied him to this life, the anchor which kept him sane.

* * *

**A/N**

Thank you all so much for your continuing support! A special thanks goes to **WitchRavenFox, TohruExcel, AnnieAmazing, Phoenix Foxfire, powerOgirl, MapleLeafCameo, Thebookworm 214, Icey. summer02, Calminthe Chaos, fantasybean and YourLovelyLandlady** and all of you who have reviewed, favourited or alerted this story! Thank you for your love, help, support and messages. You don't know how much that meant and means to me!

So, I hope I didn't forget anybody ...

See you soon, my dears!

JJ


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